I held on to our skin on skin scent
until it became ionized nitrogen,
until it drifted over dystopian summers
and blue-haloed as a cobalt-sulfate atmosphere
—which I followed well above the continental shelf
while coiling in tandem with the world’s rotation.
And only then, in starward dead-reckonings,
I could measure the ghost taction of your body
—far as polar-aurorae shieldings
ebbing away from directional dawn light,
or so I portended distance, a desperate force, desultory;
how I misread it, the mercurial sleeper—
intentionally left blank, all hushed decoherence,
all molecular compression.