She thinks the stars are like
street lamps, guiding galactic
spaceships down empty
motorways. The M1 isn’t where
she wants to be right now,
down on the hard shoulder,
and staring at the sky.

Her mobile rings.

Is some other creature looking
at their own mobile, she thinks,
up there, landed on some bit
of floating rock, boyfriend on a
pleasure planet, like hers is
in Spain. Living it up, no doubt,
sleeping around like he keeps
doing behind her back. She sent
him an e-mail. He promised to
check, on his laptop, every day.

The ringing stops.

Maybe she should’ve checked who called.

Maybe he did see the e-mail, the
stiff words woven together with
strands of glue, a tapestry that meant
only one thing. I saw the pictures,
she said, I saw the films, thinking,
I almost lived with you. It’s over, the
e-mail said. Don’t come to my flat.

She stares at her phone,
raises it, throws it,
at the tarmac ground,
stamps. Rescues the SIM
card from the wreckage.

I want to be there, she thinks,
staring at the stars. Maybe
that alien wants to be here.