On the morning of his leaving, he gives her a piece of flint shot through with flecks of quartz. 'They're stars', he said. 'I love you more than this universe', he smiled, and pressed it into the palm of her hand. In this moment in infinite space she melts. She will keep it, in a box with baby teeth, a wind worn rock from the deserts of Mali, a plastic space man from the volcanic black beach of Amed, and a ticket stub to a world music festival in Penang, Malaysia, and more besides. That will be long after his leaving. Their eyes sparkle, now, earthlings of love and light that they momentarily are.

But for now, she turns the stone over in her pocket, feeling it's cold surface turn warm under her touch. It is a rare moment of fancy for him. He works with science, not poetry, although acknowledges that there may be a useful intersection between them. Things in the centre of the Venn diagram of poetry and science includes awe, curiosity, observation, patience, and interest in small details. Words are problematic puzzles as is the entire word - they must be inspected one by one before being put together, like data. And a poem, he would say, can capture a particular understanding of an experience far more than science might try to. Take the plums in the icebox, he said to her once. It was hot and he was tracing icecubes on her lips. Williams had written:

I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox

and which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast

Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold

'Science might have described why his plums were cold' he winked, clearly enjoying the double entendre, 'but not the reasons for his selfishness in eating them himself.' She had laughed, causing him to drop the iceblock between her breasts, sending her squealing through the sheets.

On this morning, he will leave in moments - the stone is the last thing he will touch next of hers along with her waist, her hair, her lips. In three years time, he will pick up a stone on another planet, look at the stars from this new and peculiar angle, and think she has forgotten him. It will be no surprise - he had spent his whole life making a series of decisions that will take him through many galaxies, but never towards her, and always towards the pursuit of science and discovery.

It was not the stars he was interested in per se, though he loved her. He knew she would realise they were mere adornments in his sky, many merely the fading light of dying planets. He was moving forward as the first generation of many that would be born in space and never know Earth, pushing forward to the exoplanets that might support life. He had neglected to tell her so, suggesting that he would return to her. He would imagine her puzzling this out in poetry.

The last transmission he will receive will say:

I have thrown
the stone
that was in
my pocket

and which
you have probably
forgotten
long ago

Forgive me
it was so
so hard
and so cold

Image from Unsplash. The poem I reference is by William Carlos Williams, called 'This is To Say' and is one of my favourite poems.

Much love, @riverflows xx

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