Friday Poetry: "How to Love a Galaxy"

Hi all!

Multiple apologies to be made today. Firstly: yesterday, no post. School happened, unfortunately - too much work to do, too many tests to study for, by the time I was actually ready to post it was long past midnight and I was loopy with exhaustion.

And secondly: Wordpress hates me again! I was going to post this before midnight today (no, really! I was!), but for some reason it's acting up - I believe it's the new version that I just installed. I clicked "Publish" about twelve times, but nothing happened, so... crossing my fingers it actually works this time.

But anyway! This week's Friday Poetry was inspired by fictional characters, as so often happens, and quite honestly, it was mostly just an exercise in description for me. It's also ridiculously long, so I'm sorry about that! You perhaps don't want to read it if you don't have a good five or ten minutes.

Enjoy, lovelies - be sure to let me know what you think, and I will see you all on Monday, if Wordpress allows! x

love, Topaz

How to Love a Galaxy

he loves like a monsoon, like a tiger lily: fierce and soft all at once. you think there’s something more, something bigger than this, but oh god, you can’t seem to stop thinking about the gossamer in his gaze. you can’t seem to stop thinking about how it feels on your skin, how when he looks at you it seems like something important is slotting into place.

this you know: you don’t want to love him, but you can’t help but wonder at how, even after everything, just one glance feels like enough.

this you know: you don’t want to love him, but you can’t help but wonder at how, even after everything, you think you do anyway.

and then one night he says to you, quiet in the darkness, like you are a secret he wants to keep, like he is sharing a fragile thing with you: tell me about the universe.

and you’re nervous, scared of this thing fluttering between you, of the stars silently glaring down, of the way he looks at you like your fingers are birds just growing wings, like his gossamer gaze is boring holes into your soul, but you open your mouth and the words come rushing out, tripping over one another and you can feel his snowflake eyes kissing your earth, and this is what you say:

you tell him the universe is huge and magnificent, that it’s incredible and gorgeous and terrifying. you tell him that you are so insignificant in comparison. you tell him it’s everything you never knew you needed, that it’s empty and full all at the same time, that all the stretching nothingness is not nothingness at all, that it’s filled with something soft and intangible, something you don’t know the name of. you tell him that when it’s dark and foggy outside, you think the universe might be hugging you with this beautiful, intangible thing.

you tell him sometimes you wish you could hug it back. you tell him sometimes you want to ask for forgiveness for not holding it in your arms the way it has always held you.

and you say that the universe is magnificent, that it’s older than time itself, that it makes your hands shake and your head spin and when you look up at it, you don’t know what hit you. you tell him the universe is the best song you’ve ever heard, that it’s the only lullaby that’s ever been able to rock you to sleep. you tell him that when you feel like slipping through the cracks, sometimes the storm-tossed sea sings to you and you think maybe it’s the universe reminding you that you have as much right to be a part of it as anyone else.

you tell him that the universe whispers in hurricanes and screams in golden sunshine, and you tell him that sometimes you think you’re the only one who can understand it. you tell him there are times when you want to scream and cry and beat at it, stick a pin in the starry sky and watch it deflate just like you’ve come so close to doing so many times. you tell him what he already knows: that the sky has never once succumbed to the love-turned-hate you don’t know how to feel.

and then you stop, and there’s silence, and when he kisses you it’s soft and quiet and you think he can understand what you’re not saying: that perhaps you weren’t talking about the universe at all. perhaps all along you were talking about something else, and you are breathing the same air as he is, under the same canopy of wind and moonlight, and perhaps there is something so much more tangible between you than the thing you once called nothingness. if he loves like monsoon season, like tiger lilies and hurricanes and golden sunshine, then perhaps the something more you’ve been searching for is buried deep inside a part of your heart you’re too afraid to give up.

this you know: you don’t want to love him, but you can’t help but wonder at how, even after everything, the only universe you’ve ever wanted has always been made up of the stars in his eyes.