I used to think that
what I saw when I looked into your eyes,
was the galaxy.
They were vast and dark and seemingly endless,
but they are not a home for me.
What I have learned is that
I was not seeing the sun and moon and stars,
I was seeing the boundaries that contained them,
and seeing limits and edges,
hard and abrupt.
I was not seeing expansion.
I was not seeing love.
Perhaps I was discovering what it means
to see the world through someone else's eyes.
And in someone else's eyes.
But in yours, I thought I saw constellations when
in fact I saw only recollections
They say when you see a star you're seeing the light from something that died thousands of years ago.
Perhaps it is the same for old lovers.
Maybe it was the same for you and me.
I vow I will never see the stars again in the eyes of a partnet,
but instead see things in which the life is still intact and in which I am not clinging on to something forever retracting.
I will see flowers,
trees,
weeds even,
life that may flourish and wither,
but at least I can nourish them back.
We as humans have yet to scrape the edge of the universe,
and that used to scare me.
I used to find comfort in knowing I was a part of yours,
Comfort came to me knowing I was safe in the world you built for me,
but I take it back.
The next person whose eyes I fall in love with might hold stars
they might sparkle and expand,
but they will not be my universe
when there is one inside me I have yet to dive into
when there is so much more for me to see myself
without your limits or your help
