My love, tidal forces have ripped through me masked as your words
Your gravity so immense I am collapsing –
Spaghettified by your verse
What do you do with the light you recite?
Give it all to her
I am stretched into singularity trying to reach what I deserve
My love, mountains crumble the way you and I fall
We’re tumbling all over Earth
My feet stumble for the words you birth
How do you make time stand still?
Twisting and pulling
Do I exist so you can feel?
My love, you pull every fiber of my being
I come undone
Sinful and holy thing, all-consuming
Engulf me whole…
© Delia Ross. 2020
I don’t know how many poems I’ve written, because life is chaos and order, but 99.9979% have been for you. But what came first, the black hole or the star? Could the star be where it’s at today without the black hole? What if all these chemicals and elements exist because ionization occured from the black hole? What if I’m the black hole instead and you are the star? What if none of these poems were ever written? What if I never feel your actual kiss? Might die… might survive… might go supernova in your sky.
I see what they write about you. But it doesn’t fucking compare, to the magnitude of the words we write each other (I mean the words you don’t write me at all but do but don’t but do but don’t but do). Ahem. *gets back in coffin* I’m over everything and I want to hibernate through winter…
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