Friday Poetry: "How to Love a Galaxy"

Hello friends! 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! x

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.