We are glittering sore thumbs.  We stroll through drive-through Mexican restaurants, music venues that have squished themselves into Old Town between the bike shop and the marina, sequestered amphitheaters that face the sea, boats that have given birth to forests, and our high school dance in 80s dresses bedazzled with stardust and moon-rocks, looking more out-of-place in each.  The astronaut footprints on our shoulders lessen the gravity of the 3 decades the floor length fabric carries. And we dance and swirl like the goddamn space travelers we are. Try even to catch some heavenly bodies (and our own) on film. We fail. We peel off our astral prom dresses. We fall asleep halfway through a movie that was supposed to be about those rocks that fly through space to burn up in the atmosphere, but since we couldn’t find it on Netflix, it was not.  I have danced through space with you my friend. We have carried the constellations on our backs.