Letter From A Star

And I will keep for longer than your soul has patience for,
for longer than what the body that you have now has said or determined as its limit.
My essence has traveled,
Will travel,
Past what you consider your immediate space.
I am a writer and you are the reader,
in some respects;
in others I am a beam and you are a post that holds me up,
One upon Quintillions.

As if the two of us were some vast and limitless ocean,
or a part of the whole of it. Molecules bouncing,
Crashing,
Ripping,
and all that connected us between the chaos of
all that was in the middle of you and me was that:
I was shining bright enough and long enough to reach you.
You were patient enough to
actually see me.
See me.
See me in what glory?
I must seem so simple, small, insignificant to you.
A pinprick.
Something you could lament at.

What I find so interesting is that you do not see only me,
you see billions and billions just like me,
Creating pictures,
You let my position in accordance with six others like me
relative to you
determine the shape of your culture,
your future.
You put so much stock in your trajectory or your supposed
axiom position.
Boo.

I’m just sitting here,
pulsing,
burning,
dying like you,
but I don’t see you,
and I sure as hell know you don’t see all of me.

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