I could blind myself to the sunset,  
or save the words, “I love you,” 
like it would mean more if I first said it  
on a day that had no stars, 
instead of giving you echoes
when you feel lost in the woods;
I could deny the sky itself and pretend
to live on an ordinary planet
instead of learning the feel of your arms
and the sound of acceptance
that will guide me back home, 
my tactile constellation. 


By Heidi Turner