I ate stars when I was sixteen.
I was afraid you would get lost.
I wanted you to see me, even when you were rolling down darkened highways. I wanted to be able to smile like a lighthouse and call you home. Lonely sailor, come to me. I didn’t know your name then, or what your hands would feel like on my skin.
I burned my mouth for you.
Blistered my tongue, broke my teeth.
I had no fear you would not recognize my beauty — the boy with his eyes on the sky — I had no fear you would not know me. Sixteen, and I loved you in the way a person can love an idea. Like it had arms, like it had legs — or like if it had heart, enough heart, it would happen.
I willed you into existence. You’ve held me, you know I could do it. You’ve felt the magic of my bones. The dark promise of my eyes. The force of my mind, like a punch to the gut, hitting over and over again.
You don’t call me woman — you call me heaven.
You taste it on my lips.