Nebula

And you, you grew so tall — hit the ceiling — bumped your head on Polaris or Alpha Centauri or your grandmother’s lampshade. Those cascading tears eroding your makeup. Your redistributed sadness as nebulaic patches across the floor. I would wonder: could you eat a finger and scratch your throat to find the words half swallowed?

The look you offered was enough to cut an incision so deep that the moths in my rib-cage escaped. One caught the raw night-wind, rode it up to the mesosphere to choke itself to death. As it fell back to the aching ground, the patterns on the wings hoped you’d catch them. You didn’t.
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There was you, heavenly. And lifelessness had made a dent in the natural fabric of reality. A balance, I suppose, though my eyes were so skewed, it seemed off-kilter.