Falling Up

70

The stars are learning to hate me, darling.

The light is learning to avoid my longing gaze and dance just beyond my field of vision, tantalizing me with thoughts of prosperity on a planet where oxygen can fill my lungs. But my body stays rooted in space, tiptoeing tentatively in different bodies' atmospheres but pulling away for fear of burning to a crisp at entry. I find myself terrified of what oxygen could do to someone like me, what a body can do to bend and snap someone as brittle as I.

I wander on the edges of the universe, playing games of balancing on the sharp lines that drop off into nothingness and sometimes I would pray to whatever creator, that they would flick their wrist and small cracks would form under my wobbling feet.

But it never happens.

I continue to exist, surrounded by stars who despise my presence in their lovely lightshows and by bodies that pull me ever so gently into their systems.

And I'm in a constant battle as to who I listen to.

Should I listen to the stars insistent whispering, pushing me away to the depths of darkness, or do I listen to the bodies who yank me into their lonely lands to join them?

What if I find myself stuck in this in between for all of eternity? What if I stay in the gray, mindless space with the all encompassing darkness pulling me to my demise?

What if I find myself alone forever?

I wonder if the stars will always hate me, love?