i learned in sixth grade that light travels.
this means that when a star dies,
we still see its light years after
because that’s how long it takes for the light to reach earth.
they say that sunlight takes eight minutes
to travel to earth
and because of this,
when the sun bursts—as it is destined to do—
the world would be as bright
as warm
as ordinary
for eight more minutes.
life would be the same
for eight silent minutes
and then it would all be over.
the reason i bring this up is because
i have just spent more time staring up at the ceiling
than i did sleeping
and i came to realize that i’ve outlived my eight minutes—
eight minutes that i’ve tried time and again to stretch.
eight minutes that i have tried to ignore
in hopes of never having to say goodbye at all.
eight minutes that i have tried
holding on to the one person
whose light filtered through the dark abyss
in my soul, my heart.
and in trying to prolong the inevitable,
i realized that my eight minutes
had come and gone
and now i found myself stuck in that
dark labyrinth
trying so hard to find the light.
i was a shell of what i once was,
powered by the pretense of those eight minutes
that haunt me taunt me and
threaten to break me.
cruel. that was the word.
cruel to be made to believe that these eight minutes
would be an eternity still
cruel to be made to believe that these eight minutes
were still at my disposal.
i learned in sixth grade that light travels.
this means that when a star dies,
we still see its light
years after
because that’s how long it takes for the light to reach earth.
i learned in tenth grade that light travels, yes,
but it’s no use waiting for dead stars.

he haunts me to this very day
as has always been his cruel way—
joy and laughter, tears and sorrow,
hopes of him and i for tomorrow.
memories of him near drive me mad,
and yet, for this torture i am quite glad,
for even in thoughts and dreams,
i long to see and fix the broken seams.
i wish he’d stop, i wish he’d not,
i wish he doesn’t forget what can be forgot.
he haunts me to this very day,
come, i say, come my way!
don’t leave, never do—
and i shan’t stop loving you.

when i was younger, my uncle told me
no one could have heard
the big bang happening
because there was no sound in space.
i remember thinking
how sad it must have been
for the people
who lived before any of us,
how their stories were never heard
as the universe renewed itself;
how the love
and light
and beauty
in their lives had to die with them.
when i was younger
my uncle told me there was no way
to save a dying star.
he told me that even the stars
grew tired of our idiocy.
he said that when stars died
they took their galaxies with them.
they’d burst in a flash
of great vibrancy—
and then it was over.
when i was younger, my uncle told me
that the universe was as cruel
as it was beautiful.
he said it waited for no one.
he said it didn’t take into account
the people around it,
didn’t think about
the lives it killed,
the stories it erased,
the souls it took—
no.
the universe was selfish.
it was cruel.
it was an abomination.
it took me years to understand
what my uncle was trying to say.
it took me years to realize
he wasn’t talking about the universe
or the stars— not really.
he was talking about us.
the people.
humankind.
selfish and cruel
and abominations
to the world we call home.
we take and take and never give back,
we destroy everything we touch.
we were the universe—
unkind and unthinking,
incapable of looking beyond ourselves.
when i was older,
i wondered what it was like
for the people who lived on planets
with dying stars:
i wondered if they knew
they would cease to exist,
i wondered what they thought
as they saw that great flash of bright light—
but when i was older i saw that
the stars were the beautiful creatures
driven to the point where they thought
they never mattered
because we were selfish enough
that they never felt loved.
i saw that these stars chose to collapse,
chose to die,
because what good were they?
but i saw that these stars,
these flashes of bright light
were all it took for entire galaxies
to live,
to breathe,
and when they left,
they left in their wake
destruction
and darkness.
when i was older, i realized
that these galaxies were never dotted
on our night sky
they were the people around us
trying to live despite the fact
that their stars had chosen to die.
when i was older, my uncle told me
that new stars were born every minute,
because the big bang hadn’t stopped yet.
and i remember thinking
how unfortunate that something so beautiful
could be born in a time
of cruelty
of selfishness.
i remembered thinking
that despite everything—
that despite the inevitability
of stars dying—
i hope these stars
choose to shine instead.

He writes poetry like it is the air he breathes
he chokes on his own words and trips on his sentences
And stumbles over his paragraphs.
He writes like it is the only thing keeping him sane,
And maybe it is.
He writes like he’s running out of time—
Like he can’t possibly finish everything
He has to write about
In the time he has left—
Like all that mattered was him
And the words that filled up
The pages of his journal messily.
He writes until there is nothing left to write about.
He writes about everything and nothing:
Heartache and happiness,
The waves and the shore . . .
He writes about the things he can never say out loud.
He writes about the worlds he wants to live in.
He writes and he writes and he writes
Until there is nothing left to his life but words and sentences and paragraphs and stories.
But you see, no matter how many universes he creates
Or how many tales he writes about
He can never escape
The gruelling reality
Of his world—
Bleak and gray as it is to him.
He looks to poetry for refuge,
Thinks that maybe words
Were his own personal weapon.
And why not?
His words built up mountains and created castles in the sky,
And he knew the same words were unerring tools of destruction
That could tear apart the strongest mountains with a few
Well-crafted sentences.
He thinks that maybe if he wanted for anything,
He could write it into existence.
So he writes.
Poem after story after poem—
All about her,
Hopefully and naively thinking
That maybe if she read them
She’d know
About the nights he spent writing her name over and over
On the sheets of paper on his desk
Like a personal prayer
Hoping it would be enough to bring her back to him
But he wakes up alone every morning anyway
And learns that words can only do so much.
He knows now that no matter how many passages he repeats
Or how many times he writes his words down over and over
Poetry doesn’t always set things right
But it does add some beauty to the world.
His words do hold some kind of power over something
And that, he thinks, is beautiful.
It is beautiful.
And he thinks maybe this is something he’s meant to do.
So he writes.