A poetic series of universes, stitched together by science and heartbreak.

Some say love is written in the stars.
I say it’s scattered across universes, in fragments of what almost was,
what collapsed too soon,
what spun too far,
or burned too bright.

I’ve always tried to make sense of heartbreak with science.
So I started writing poetry, one universe per goodbye.
Here we love, lose, and orbit,
again and again,
under different skies.

🪐 Field Notes from Parallel Loves

🔹 Universe#0720 - Supernova
Where some stars die so beautifully, they take you with them.
=> https://hellopoetry.com/poem/5104317/universe0720-supernova

🔹 Universe#0510 - Quantum Tunneling
Where even improbable love failed to tunnel through.
=> https://hellopoetry.com/poem/5104319/universe-0510-quantum-tunneling

🔹 Universe#0620 - Gluons
Where even the force that binds the universe couldn’t hold us.
=> https://hellopoetry.com/poem/5104322/universe0620-gluons

🔹More universes await. Drift carefully…..

Premise: Where even improbable love failed to tunnel through.

quantum tunneling,
the universe’s way of whispering:
even through walls,
love can pass,
if it wants to badly enough.

a love slipping past reason,
through impossibility,
into each other.

two entangled particles,
tied,
bound,
but always collapsing
in opposite directions.

mirror spins
aching for the same center,
drawn to meet,
and still, drifting apart.

some say
dark energy can be quantized,
weighed, divided, explained.
but if that were true,
there’d be a number
for why we left.

there isn’t.
and maybe that’s proof enough:
some barriers,
even in the universe,
keep waiting for a spark that never comes,
lingering like a wave that fades,
almost through,
almost home,
then gone.

Premise: Where even the force that binds the universe couldn’t hold us.

gluons don’t stay.
they flicker
in and out of existence,
binding what they touch
without being held themselves.

and some bonds
exist only to disappear.
unpromised.
unstructured.
felt,
but never seen.

each collision
briefly made something whole.
and then?
blink.

no orbits.
no gravity.
just a center
too light to catch,
and a silence
too familiar to break.

And that’s the irony, isn’t it?
gluons the particles that hold the universe together,
couldn’t even hold us.

Premise: Where some stars die so beautifully, they take you with them.

a supernova
not a cry for help,
but a burst so bright
it teaches the dark how to glow.

some stars burn so fiercely
their light becomes a promise,
an invitation too strong to resist.
wanderers drift closer,
trusting the warmth.

then the pull begins, softly,
a hush across space.
reasoning being stretched into threads of light,
drawn thin, unwound, unmade.
closer, then closer still
until time forgets how to run.

somewhere beyond that edge,
the event horizon,
where even light must let go,
the heart unravels,
quietly.
willingly.
because falling,
felt more like love
than drifting ever did.

then the black hole takes what’s left,
like a love that consumes,
piece by piece,
not violently,
but in small unspoken vanishings:
a memory.
a warmth.
a name no longer held.
until all that remains
is the quiet.

only fragments circle back,
to the ghosts of a gravity once trusted,
tracing a center that cannot be touched.
a singularity of what was,
where even love is stretched so thin
it forgets the shape it had.

and somewhere,
still visible on the far edge of silence,
the tiny blue dot blinks.
already drifting out of reach,
a witness to this quiet unravelling of the cosmos.