by Jennifer Crow
Moonlight creeps, stealthy silver rogue slipping through slats in blinds, slitting the throats of clouds, winking for a moment before vanishing, soft-footed below the horizon.
I would have followed you to the end: of the earth, of the dream, of the hope for humanity in triumph or survival or endless exile. Instead, I stand alone on a headland overlooking a gray sea that tastes more of death than of salt, and curse your name as I look for the bright star of your passing overhead. Only so many you can save, you said, and emptied your pockets of earth’s dust as you drained my soul of its last illusion.
Jennifer Crow’s work has appeared in a number of print and electronic venues over the past quarter of a century, including Asimov’s Science Fiction, Uncanny Magazine, and Strange Horizons. She lives near a waterfall in western New York.