stars and soup cans

"it just got too hard to care," he says.

"i know," she replies.

i would've broken off a pane of sky for you, she thinks. i would've cut stars from soup cans until my fingers were trembling.

"can you see the stars in the city?" she had asked.

"probably not."

big city bright lights, the green glow at the edge of the harbor. salty eyes. (do robots cry?) hers. oh. lost.


and still, she (silly little girl) would've continued to make them, shape their ugly metal because that is all she knows, all she is-- gritty-beautiful in the way of chapped lips and dirty fingernails, ragged breaths and soft heartbeats. for him, she would've strung out the stars until all the clocks in the world were gone.

(he's gone.)