Fold just once to save some time —
perhaps to bridge this crack —
between the spaces of the line,
my stage-light tesseract.
Angles always arcing right,
light twisted up and bent.
Finding neither sound nor sight,
touch is all that’s meant.
Rough and pitted from our part,
my orbit stays the same.
Gravity alone does not break hearts,
fusion is to blame.
But this could never be enough to keep our molten dance.
Beneath the iron of those stars, words never stood a chance.
Jacob Marsh 