When we were young,
We were told that the stars are hot compressions of gas.
We learned to believe if we hold onto something hard enough and long enough,
We'd see something spectacular.
We become dreamers,
Star chasers.
Obsessed with the ideas that we can make stars from our own 2 ignorant hands.
And when we can't reach the heavens,
We reach into the hearts of others,
Like a hole we fill to fulfill our destiny.
I knew a dreamer,
An earth astronaut.
So desperate to build a cosmos of his own he made ghosts of those who left.
He grasps onto his apparitions so tight,
It's like it's the only thing keeping him from drowning.
And as he kneels before her,
Guiding her hands to his throat,
Wrapping her slender fingers over his lifeline
And slowly curled their fingers like a string on a harp.
He forgets that he is not stardust and hydrogen,
He forgets he is just a man,
That there will be no explosion of colours,
No awe inspiring burst of light,
Just blood.
And my god,
Blood and air.
Until there is nothing left.
