You said, “We are both made of star dust, let us shine alone!”
but my bones must be from beyond your observable universe.
My mind is still forming bitter blue pockets, thoughts, protostars, lives but
they curl up inside of themselves, petering out, before they can be born.
You supernovaed to soon, rather than following a legacy, my only wish;
Andromeda’s dream to join with the Milky Way in a moment of destruction
but birth. No, a splendor but a shame, you sputtered as you dispersed
when the solar winds blew you out with a laugh; but the bits of me lost,
were gone forever. You dream devourer, you smothered the concept before star
dust grew into bones, a cut out part of me you didn’t miss but I will mourn.
Come say that to my dusty, smeared face; to my belly always flat, to that rip
in time, always sore, that scar blaring our loss. No more star here,
don’t expect our lives to change from two into one.
That dust rusted between the galaxies.
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