What is a promise if not your hand in mine?
— Alice Walker
Except you let go
leaving shards
of promise
in my hands
in our half-built home
where I sang
serendipity
you left
the years reduced
to molecular cloud
maybe I was lucky
enough to
start believing
it was fate
you and me
written in the language
of stars by anonymous
almighty you and me
making constellations
indecipherable, out of reach, comforting
regardless
I am learning
for the second time
how stars are made
from the burst
of a supernova
far away firework
bringing together
old friends
a rainfall of prayers
returning to earth
until all there is left
is fortune shining
faintly in the night
sky.