Remember that night in the Mojave,
the two of us lounging out back

of the Airbnb, the sky a stupor
fallen over us? Remember

your disappointment the evening
didn’t end in sex? Some things

never measure up. I had been thinking
of satellites, their debris glittering

in the dark. What is it Shakespeare says
about love? Ours is mortal. A man

and a woman hurtling through life,
once luminous though now

the best we can do is glimmer.
I’m sorry this is true, but it is.

I’ll orbit you all my days, but that night,
I nodded along while you named constellations

when all I saw was a dark dome

littered with shiny things

some of which might be stars.