i exist [as the definition of nonexistence]

one day i'll stop writing poems about you but for now the sky is falling.

this should be a love poem

about the way your eyes are supernovas

in shades of gold,

the way your freckles connect like

constellations

across the bridge of your nose.

but we parted ways and

stars are falling from the sky.

the end of the universe

follows behind you like the train of

a gown,

a meteoroid belt like a halo

above your head.

this should be a love poem,

about the time you laughed

and a star lived and died in my chest.

instead i am writing about the black hole in my bed,

with a pull so strong that I've

migrated to the couch.

people are made of starstuff, they say,

and you devoured all of mine.

this should be a love poem,

but darling

we have run out of lines.