She lounges, nude, in the long window seat, long legs draped over velvet cushions threaded with silver. The stars and gas giants, ripped from galactic tranquility, rumble and flare as her ship saunters by. She loves their two-fold reaction of shock (the insect has turned the attention of our immensely old celestial bodies) and frustration (we are mired in our vacuums and cannot pursue this novelty) while her dark ship drifts past.
Amorous liaisons between witches and planets have not happened for millennia, but she is old enough to remember the spurious actions that caused the whole arrangement to collapse (a girl could go from “beloved” to “insect” at the speed of light). She still has her edge, and a little cosmic tease will serve these neglectful hunks of rock right.
She sorts her herbs and cards by the window as though she does not notice the straining of the stars, as though she has not done this to random solar systems for thousands of years. It never gets old, this stoking of fire in dead space rock and clean fire. She has seventy light-years before she reaches Galaxy A1689-zD1, where all things Terra are much in demand. She might as well have a little fun while she passes the space-time.
(Massive Attack–Butterfly Caught)