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Dec 2018
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.
another one from my anthology on space
Albertha Lachmi Aphrodite Obut
Written by
Albertha Lachmi Aphrodite Obut  19/F/Philippines
(19/F/Philippines)   
331
   Elizabeth J
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