we conserved no energy, collapsing inward
as we kissed amidst the heat death of my last love
fingers splayed so the lines from wrist to tip radiate outward
like paired spiral galaxies
bruising nebulas across your hips
you told me of two stars tangled in each other’s gravity
eclipsing one another every several minutes,
their atmospheres expanding
like a body posing the question of aging
to the answer of touch
to live is to burn a hole in the sky
and to die means immolating so bright
that time forgets the distance
between the initial blaze and the last small expiration
of your name from someone else’s mouth
–
Dan Saulpaugh works as a singer-songwriter, session musician, and educator in New York City. They write poems at home in their fifth-floor walk-up apartment surrounded by plants, on the subway between gigs, and sometimes at the public library. There is never enough coffee or time to read everything.
© 2026, Dan Saulpaugh
Halfway Down the Stairs 