On waking up one morning on a bed that is not hers beside a boy who neither is
Her eyes adjusted to the darkness, his profile in silhouette, dimly illuminated.
His eyelashes fluttered in REM sleep, lost in dreams, oblivious.
The curve of his cheeks, the valley between his lips, mere topographies in the dark.
She dared not wish for the boy, nor for a night, but merely a kiss.
There was many a star that night; he even traced constellations in her eyes. She is now his, and he, hers; and between their palms, they hold the stars.