Meteors were meant

to shower at 2am

when stray debris

entered our orbit.

We’d have made out

black tails, dark against

your blue tin house and a

pale torn-open morning.

You would have

been beautiful, grey eyes

holding the sky filled

with iron scraps on fire.

But at 2am I was held

under your heavy arm and the

soft stubble of your cheek

against my neck.