THE SUN, a sintering hot asterisk, suspends above Olympus Mons, glows cerulean from the scattering of red dust. The air is thin and cold, much colder a mere foot above our native ground. We recline into the less frigid layers, and my love cuddles closer to me. She tells me I’m the only one in the universe for her, as her slender fingers brush the soft folds of my face. She says her genes sing a song of her ancestors and that she is linked to me as deeply as she is connected to them. Now, my own DNA vibrates the same melancholy notes.
The two moons are full, embering the night. The closer one swells, its albedo bright despite the sun’s dim distance. And it hangs near a speck tinted with aquamarine in the blackening sky. She says she often dreams of that third planet full of oceans, misses our own ancient seas. When meteors shower, it’s always a painful time. The memories of craters. The expelling of rocks into space, and that which was the flesh of our flesh, bone of our bones, blood of our blood… We long to see our children.
A warmth wells up with lust in her clear black eyes, her flesh rippling to my touch. The night is long so we entwine and anchor ourselves; gravity is no friend here. In the morning, the rust-colored dunes are on fire with light, and we, pressed together with our horns still thrust into the sand, melt from its heat.
Some of those meteors streak past the pale blue dot. Others will make it home.