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We adapt to the desires of the moment, polymorphic minds in constant flux, floating weightless in the space between our hips. We look in the same direction, eyes absorbing language across a distance that concertinas between invisibility and intimacy. But each hair on our bodies is an aerial, scanning proximity, leaning into the magnetism of passing spheres, decoding signals sent when we were still animals, aspiring to limbs. We are made from the stuff of stars: I spiral, foetal, in a void of glimmerings; you shrink into black light, your radiation dispersing without decay. We will hold this orbit until we discover new worlds or, in our singular dance, spiral into the Sun.