Endings always start the same way—stellar
nurseries clouded with beginnings
in the form of hydrogen, newborn specks
of bright, birthed in the recesses of nowhere.
They stumble and flash with laughter, and for a moment
you almost feel like a part of something
until suddenly, you are behind glass—you want to choose
the color of your aura. You choose to be all of them
because you are afraid of grey. You want to be colored
with any color. You are bursting with instability,
stroking your bangs, pulsing with questions
while you are busy deconstructing
drywall and whispering the night away
beside someone in this carnival
of catastrophes, of montaging through cycles
of red giants dying into planetary nebulae
down to the smallest prick of light
until suddenly, darkness—explode and repeat.