Stars

 He was made of stars, and lived like a poem. Soft, and yet intense, filled with passion, and occasionally lapsing into nothing as all of the words and bright lights twined themselves back together and tried to heal the wounds. Wounds he inflicted upon himself through flaws in his broken form of love. The precious stars, they lived on words and emotion, burning together to form the poetic light which tried to shine for anyone who dared to see it. So often people would borrow of this light, and so often would his words fall away as the stars struggled to continue the reactions that would keep them alive. 

 “take my hand” he offered again, and as she did, the light shuddered, but he wouldn’t feel it. He was certain that she would replace what she took before he ever missed it.

 “take my hand” and the stars shimmered in a silent cry.

“I’ll walk with you” she promised “I will walk with you over that old road, so that we might see it again together.”

 And the stars smiled with the promise, that she would be there too, and that he might be a part of something good. And just a bit of light touched him, the words flowed again at the seams that held the stars in his little universe, and they tried to heal themselves with the promise of brightness.

 The day approached for their journey back to the beginning, to revisit the start of their friendship, together, and it helped him to survive.

 “take my hand” he said as she broke again, and the stars shimmered, and she thought it was a wonderful display as he held on, with an assured knowledge that light would return.

“I visited the road today” she said to him, and he hushed the stars as they let out a sigh and their energy was finally gone.

 He told the stars that this was absurd, that it was okay for her to walk the road, he had passed by it just days before, and was that so different? But the stars were done, and the poetry of his life ignited to continue the fire. It burned quickly and furiously, and so suddenly he was watching his stars expand and explode, leaving tiny holes throughout him.

 “I’m okay” he insisted with a forced smile, even as he shook.

 Groups of stars exploded in a brilliant disaster. He shook, and writhed, and he yelled at the sky and anyone who dared come near him. The poem was fire, and the fire was dying. He cried and fell to the ground as the stars folded back into themselves, becoming dim and heavy. So heavy and small that he couldn’t even move.

 He stayed there upon the ground, the great surviving star, the largest of them all, in place of his heart, expanded to a painful size, cooling down and desperately clinging to its life. And he waited for it to explode. He knew that once his great survivor died it would leave a hole so large that it would take in everything around it. All of the heavy little parts of his former self, and anyone who dared get close to him. He would be left dark, and so mindless as to take everything he touched, just to stay alive. He knew this, he knew he was dying, and still he couldn’t stop himself, giving that last bit of his dying flame.

 “take my hand” he said weakly. And she didn’t know he was dying.

There was a blinding flash. For a moment he shone brighter than he ever had, brighter than everything around him. For a moment, he was all anyone could see. For one beautiful, violent moment.

And then all at once the light rushed back in, and there was left only a dark void, so much less than empty.

 And he was so far gone that it felt as though there had never been light there to begin with.