Deep Water

I waited a million years for all of these particles of stars to come and lay themselves over me and give me life. I opened brilliant eyes that had shone from billions of miles away and will shine for a billion years until they die in a fabulous, firey release.

I wanted to say a lot of different things to you back then when you were waiting so impatiently and so was I. We steered ships with our eyes closed and climbed mountains but really we were sitting here, collecting stardust, you know.

Coffee is never just coffee with you, of course, of course.

We talk about your mother.

And when everything rained down after all and we stood up and we shook ourselves off we were unaware that we were leaving trails behind of existence and truth and infinite space. But we walk on, of course, of course.

We walked until we weren’t sure where we were anymore but you steer so sure and I follow, of course, I follow the wake, the stardust breadcrumbs. The planet that was sitting up above us last night and watching found a thousand little cracks in our certainty, Jupiter, wise.

We stumble like always, we walk where we walk and we wonder what happened before it all. Who breathed there in that still space? I shrugged your hateful jacket around my shoulders because the massive cold was heavy, it came down with such a purpose.

You pointed up there at the stars and we stared like tiny ants and wondered about the mind of god and the collective, if that’s what it all looks like even in our own heads? Is it happening now, are we part of the breakdown, the breastfeeding of the stars, the flinging of matter and antimatter across the brave, empty sky.

The what? What was it? Did our simple need, the necessessity, bring it to be? Did the GREAT MOTHER STAR breathe it from her nose and mouth to cradle us in inky sureity?

You puff puff puff your cigarette, you stub it out, a million beautiful little pieces of stardust always falling in my mind.