There is something tragically intangible about space that makes it so beautiful, infinite light years of nothing out there to be explored. it's terrifyingly real, many have been there, but I will never go. Space is something of the subconscious, you can only create and appreciate it's essence in the prison of grey matter a top your head.
And though I've never been there I know if I ever collided with a passing star, I'd caress it's sides and combust into it's center. melting, blending, becoming one.
how badly I want to sacrifice my soul into a black hole, how sad it is that I'll never get the chance.
how incredibly similar space is to you how beautifully intangible you are.
how badly I want to love you, how sad it is I'll never get the chance.