Your starstruck eyes have been replaced with particle beam casings, but your smile is still the
Beloved: I am afraid of the unknown, which is why I’ve put off so much for so long.
You delight in my body, not despite the changes but with the changes that come.
You have said: the end of this universe becomes the birth of another,
your hands running along my sides, leaving behind constellations in your wake,
and so, Beloved: I have amputated my tail and replaced it
with the planetary shards stolen from a broken world;
you have touched my tail as you have touched all parts of my everchanging body, pressed kisses
where it met at the base of my spine, then more between my thighs.
You have said this: Know this, reality is always collapsing,
and with it so do we, collapsing into one another, so that every atom of me might know every
atom of you.
Beloved: Let us come together with these steel-and-flesh bodies and worship
at the heart of the universe, worship one another,
delighting in our bodies with how much they’ve changed.
Beloved: I am no longer afraid when you are with me,
hiding on this ship of immortals, within small spaces, like closets and not.
You have said: the world is an egg, and something is hatching.
Beloved: I have been that world.
J. Kosakowski (They/he)
J. Kosakowski is a queer writer born and raised in New York City. While they do not enjoy long walks on the beach, they do happen to enjoy discussing all things crochet, cannibalism, and mythology. Their work has appeared in Baffling Magazine and Daily Science Fiction. They can be found at jkosakowskiwrites.wordpress.com and on Twitter @kosakowski_j.