Wednesday, February 07, 2024


At times, she looks at him as if
he is a pastiche of galaxies.
Cold—oh! so cold—on the surface,
constantly undergoing a shift.
His eyes hold clusters of stars,
catastrophically beautiful, made
with all these colours she cannot spell.
His existence held together
with a halo she can barely touch.
His love: an intense gravitational pull,
cascading and collapsing into the
center of her zeroed ipseity.
His spectacular, love-induced touch,
accepted by her mortal part, as the
surface receives the meteoroid.
An aching sublimity of his smile
evokes, subdues the ecstasy of space-ripping
supernovae—outshining and radiating
her soul’s infinite disposition.
His mouth, like Sagittarius A,
trapping light and gravity underneath.

With his one kiss, she’d be consumed.