The stars came out tonight after long days of clouds and doom. From the rains in the skies to the rains in my soul, dawn blinked in the distance and held glimmers of hope.
When will your stars come out? I wait in the darkness for you to complete the other half of my cheap invented metaphor but you seem to have lost your way somewhere. I do not want to change you, no. I do not want to impose perfection on you like the breaking yolk of Christ. No. I want you to be perfect for whole other reasons.
I want you to be imperfect because you were perfect. I want you to soar beyond the boundaries of flawless just so you can find out the perfect flaws to destroy and unlock your flawed. I want you to be so bad because you were so good. For you to be truly heartless, you must have once had had a heart trampled on. And your love must have been disfigured for you to be capable of touching the deepest reserves of the hate in you. I want you to hate me not just in the cover of night but in the bright lights of day. I want the inside of our house to be made of the same stone that lines our veins because the confines of a brick wall would be too weak to hold the explosions of you and I.
And when we have finally outlived our disasters, we will fall into our destruction with the same swiftness that we flew with. We will not come apart with shame and our ashes shall not scatter to the worlds with the winds of regret. Instead, just like the stars die, we will be joined into one big black hole and be one to the neutrons in the thinnest of our capillaries. Inconspicuous.
But we cannot yet ascend that descent unless you have been to both of the polars. You cannot die until you have known good and lived; loved a little too deeply. Because you do not want to curse your borrowed soul with inadequacy as it sets upon its new course. Out of you and in another.