You are my lover.
I live within a density--an atmosphere, if you will--gathered here by an unfathomable gravity. Strays and strangers, and other would-be penetrants, burn-up on collision with me in spectacular streaks of light. But even they might go unnoticed if I don't look for them. I do look--indeed I search for them--and I watch with awe as they disintegrate high, high up in the sky, not having even gotten close. They are not the one I need.
They say a comet rammed the Earth, killing all the dinosaurs and creating the Gulf of Mexico. Some even suggest a similar collision much earlier broke apart the Earth's very crust, and sent into orbit a chunk that became the Moon. And with
inimical humanity, we cultivate our dread of cataclysm, implementing it with machines that search the void for inbound bullets as big as Hawai'i, or bigger. We will kill it, they say, before it can cast us off this globe, like dead dinosaurs. But I think such a collision would make our souls somewhat like dandelion seeds sent aloft on the breath of a child. We will kill it, they say.
The one I need will pierce my thick air and penetrate ablaze. The one I need will not succumb to my arrogant defensive assaults nor dissipate within my protective layers. The one I need will finally impact my surface with consequences yet unknown.
The one I need might never come. But in these last dozen sentences, you and I have been lovers once again. Until next time...
|
|
|