The pitch black sky often makes me wonder about those twinkling fallacies of probability—and spurs me on to yearn of being a shooting star. I would streak through space, with memories—albeit blurred—hurtling past, sparing me the agony of those wistful moments spent in contemplation and regret.
Every time my sheen flickered, I trusted you to shine upon me again and keep the darkness at bay. I shed the numerous protective layers that burdened yet comforted me, just so that I could love you.
Suspended in mid-space with nothing but the blinding darkness and the deafening silence for company, life was at its peaceful best. But, every now and then, I chuckle at the mere thought of my existence—an unwanted blemish on the star-sprangled night sky.
And yet, every time my emotions explode in a supernova, I revel in its paroxysm.