How many loves can this heart hold?
I circle the nexus of the universe picking up stars as I go and sliding them into pockets like tendrils of milky way trailing behind me. I am a constellation yet to be named. Hopelessly bleeding light like a whale gutted into the vacuum of space.
How long can I wait?
Trillions of light years until this fire reaches the eyes of earth. I will wait longer to be seen. By the one who will do the naming. To be known, to be known. Sometimes stars are born and die without ever being seen, much less named.
Yes, my light is for me. Self contained. Self illumined. Billions of years collecting stardust and particle. Sifting the black cosmos for pieces of myself called back home. Lighted from the burning center of galaxies. I know who I am. I am whole. Complete. An ellipse of self generated radiance nectar. Soaked. This is enough.
This is not enough. I want to be named. I want my light collected and reflected in eyes that glow with curiosity and the desire to know. I want to be traced through telescopes and on paper. To be made real in another place. One I’ll never touch. For earth eyes to know the arduous process I took in becoming this miracle hanging in the sky. The gathering, the building, the containing, and the burst.
Meanwhile I keep burning. Spilling light from my eternal well. An abundance of me. Overflowing for the joy of overflowing. Waiting for my light to touch the earth. Waiting to be named.
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