he had a dream
where she slept in his lungs,
cleared the air and breathed his blood.

he made a universe
of stars made of her
they had her name and they breathed life.

he loved her
because he thought it meant
loving himself
but he should've known that
two explosions, when finished,
eventually result
in darkness.

he thought the universe was heavy,
yet he carried her to bed every night
for a week and a half
while she battled her tears
over “what if?”
and he would put her to sleep
with gentle cradling and soft whispering
because he knew stars needed to sleep too.

he made flowers grow
in her body,
he let their stems wrap tightly
around her ribs and hold her together,
and he was scared of the darkness,
but he'd come to love the eerie glow
of the moonlight.
his fingers were drowned
in the outpouring of her agony,
and they were fixed to her cheeks
like constellations in the sky.
the person she used to be
was now a faint ghost,
etched into his memory,
but it was how he kept her alive.

the things he thought about most
were the things he talked about least
often times,
the sounds of their children's laughter
stained the fibres of his mind,
but he couldn't recall those sounds,
for they had been replaced
by his wife's shaky breaths
and painful cries.

he had a dream
where she slept in his lungs.
perhaps that was where she should be,
for maybe life can begin to grow again
and wrap tightly around her ribs
and possibly, maybe, hopefully,
hold her together.

he wished the flowers good luck,
because even gravity
couldn't bind the universe.