The summer sun descended and, in its departure, singed the evenings’ edges, so that every night glowed red. There was not a vessel in her body that didn’t pulse for you after that, because something in those burning skies awakened in her a yearning lain dormant for too long. So long, in fact, that the sensation overwhelmed her and she forgot how to breathe, and she found herself floating, lightheaded and unwittingly, towards you. Into you. And you into her, it seems, because now despite rolling clouds that in cooler months separate us from the galaxy, embers of you continue to burn and warm her blood. The sun lives inside her.
She is the galaxy and you are those rolling clouds, heavy with watery preoccupations, obscuring your own view of that which glitters for you, even when you are not looking. A gust of wind, a whisper in the right direction, would at once dissipate that ominous storm you have predicted and bring warmth back to your world
But whispers are not hers to give.
So for now, she will burn, but burn unnoticed.