We pulled off somewhere
past the edge of signal,
dust curling like smoke
behind the tyres.
She climbed the bonnet barefoot,
leaned back with a bottle of water
and a grin
like she’d stolen it from a god.
Said she used to be
an astrologer.
Said Orion was her first crush
and she still wrote him letters
when it rained.
I told her I didn’t believe in fate.
She said,
“Good.
The sky doesn’t care
what you believe.”
She pointed—
Scorpius.
Crux.
Something I can’t pronounce
but still dream about.
I kissed her
somewhere between Mars and regret.
She tasted like dust
and the end of something beautiful.
By morning,
the sky was empty
and so was the seat beside me.
I still look up
hoping to find
whatever she saw in the dark.
Ryan Stone
This poem appears in my latest collection:
Shady Ladies and Bourbon Highways
Available for kindle from Amazon Australia here or Amazon US here.
days of stone 
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