She is a butterfly...
hiding under sunspots.
He’s a gecko,
lurking in that velvet corner where the light forgets to go.
She is chaos—
he’s the eye of her storm.
They were born from deep sea vents,
rose up to the skies like they meant to crack open clouds,
pull humans into a frenzy
no weather pattern could predict.
She calls it life.
He? He just stares into death,
like it’s a familiar hallway with flickering lights.
The question of origin?
It’s always that stupid finger—
pointing,
blaming,
laughing at the moment they both thought:
"Wait… was any of it even real?"
Hey, ****.
It’s all tiny signals,
she read.
"It’s all eternity,"
he preached,
like a god with a broken clock.
They walked through each other’s ghost stories,
talked all night in a language made of
fake memories,
false starts,
and déjà vus shaped like abandoned houses.
They locked eyes—
those traitorous, trembling eyes—
and whispered vows
to nights that haven’t happened yet.
To days that only those **** aliens have seen.
Yeah. Those aliens.
The ones living on the edge
of the universe’s bubble,
eating popcorn,
watching this bubble bursting program
on cosmic cable.
And when the light consumed the darkness,
when the tiny capsules cracked open like old seeds—
they were left raw.
Naked.
Shivering in the gift-wrapped curse
called "Time."
She ran away.
He walked away.
Moments…
split.
Time…
parted.
While million-dollar math problems
sit unsolved on cluttered desks,
watched over by smoke-drenched visionaries
who know something’s wrong
but can’t solve heartbreak
with equations.
This is the program.
It’s always been the program.
We’re just signals,
wrapped in skin,
playing roles,
in a show
with no rehearsal
and no pause button.
So if you’re watching,
dear alien—
just know…
We improvised the whole **** thing.