i. 

I am not the center of the universe. 

I am a single soul, filtered through

the filthy hands of evolution 

and lumps of clay. I am

only a single voice, one that cannot

reach the edges of the overlapping universe.

I am not what makes the world spin. 

Only what dims the sun’s rays and 

makes ash flick from cigarettes 

between your fingers. I am not what 

makes the moon rise.

You loved star gazing. We watched from

4,000 years away, sitting

on the roof outside my window. I’d 

comb my fingers through your curls

and you’d talk about the little

dipper and I’d talk about your eyes. 

How they danced with every

word and shut before every breath.

ii.

An exhaust of hydrogen,

I must be what makes stars burn out. 

What makes them collapse and 

expose the inner shell of helium.

But I am not a supernova. I do not

cast glowing hues of green or blue. 

I shriek in silence, fizzle out, and 

blend in with the rest of the Milky Way.