Lately, I keep thinking back to when you told me you were almost certainly taken that late summer night when you were riding your bike through Bushwick and saw that funny, fizzing light dangling above you in the sky — and then its sudden, deliberate propulsion, and then its hopeful dive. I don’t know how they held you when they first held you, or what flooded through you when their tractor beam hit you, if you resisted when they held your breath for you, or if you only noticed how blue and beautiful and terrible the earth finally seemed as it shrank beneath you. I don’t know where they took you when they took you, which icy planet they flew to, or how many light years it took you, or if, impatient to make their way inside of you, they pulled their ship over and parked in the middle of all that imperfect black nothingness and immediately turned their attention to you. I don’t know what it feels like to be inside of you, or the intergalactic precision of the tools it would take, or the mess it would make breaking into you, or how still you begged your heart to stay, or if you found yourself praying or crying or singing as they made themselves at home in the few clean holes you couldn’t keep closed. I don’t know why they took you when they took you, or where you went to, or what you went through — I only know if I were them and suddenly you were mine, I would never
give you back.