Death and You

It was a wonder to see the stars while they were still alive. Crystalline constellations, with small fireworks in their centre. I sleep and wake to the sound of dying embers, and I drink my tea with the milk of the white galaxies that blazed long ago, but are now stifled and quiet. And I watch the oscillations through the night, of different mechanical gliders and shards of glass mingling in the night. All is quiet, all is still, all is love, all is dying. Dying makes the night so much lovelier.

You’re old and you’re dead, and I’m here and I’m living. By some inconsequential means, I am still breathing and alive, though I feel my hands belong in the cold earth to comfort your deadened heartbeat. I belong rooted in the heavy soil, with your thorns as wreaths on my head.