Two stars collide in the centre of the universe, bow and step aside. Vagrant celestial solipsists, galaxies once so divided, now dance. In their orbits they pay homage, flung wide on vast elliptical trajectories that seperate and reconnect at predictable interstices with macrocosmic implications and minuscule variations. In this way, over time, they waltz through space, ever connected by merged purpose but coexisting merely in vicinity. Such sadly joyous manoeuvres have wrought lust and longing upon ageless energies and countless lives, leaving nebulous wakes and vast black lakes of antimatter demarcated by absences. Two stars collide with burning desire.
She’s presently living in another time. Only a mere matter of hours but seperate still from mine. I look up at the constellations and think of dilation. The farther out you go the further you stray from now. Four hundred and ninety seconds from Sol to surface, an Apollonian joke. I laugh and wonder how long it would take the sound to reach her heart, but I can’t clock the variables and the thought falls apart. Staring at our mutual stars instead, counting to infinity in my head, I take comfort knowing that, relatively speaking, we are always wed.