I am old.
Very old.
My birth was a collision of particles in an infinitely dark place,
And it’s funny because I spend half my time blinded by this light
That I’m unceasingly drawn to.
I think I’m in love with it.
But then it disappears and for a while I am reunited with my mother.
My mother is vast, you know.
Full of wisdom itself.
Sometimes she asks me how I am because my cells are silly
And go to war with each other.
I try and tell her I’m fine,
But then I sigh and my skin trembles and cracks,
And those silly little cells fall in and wither.
I need to be careful.
I am fragile because they are fragile.

The light isn’t fragile though.
I am young, but I know I am in love with it.
It is my breath, my everything, my all.
And it makes me feel as if I am all green inside.
Perhaps I am.
I want to rush to the light all at once, but I am shy.
I inch forward.
It gives me time to think, though.
Sometimes the light is harsh.
It burns my silly little cells and they cry out, and sometimes I cry too,
Because they are so fragile and so am I.
They are so small and so am I.
I cry because love is a collision, like birth, like death.
I cry because we are star-crossed lovers,
And I am out of my depth.