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The pitch is rising, which implies it’s spinning faster. Repeated oscillations in ever increasing intensity. Swirling and motion.

Repeat and return and it’s over.

Flower in the hand. Dried gypsum. In the ghost of another dream you are beside me. Scorpio is descending through hazes and shades of this Puerto Rican night. Blackness so rich that the stars are a dream of withdrawn and delighted light, left to far-off destinations that we will never reach.

You said you could hear the galaxy.

You said you could hear the galaxy in me. Can you hear me now? Or is the pitch so high at last it’s beyond your understanding? Me spinning out, spinning far past the place where this all still can hold, and soon it will go. Soon I will move out into the stars and take up my own place, a brightly burning ball of disaster like all the other stars, alive and golden, set out to explode in time. The medium for new galaxies, born of the cold matter that is the wake of destruction.

The dream life of stars.

Listen. Hear it turning faster. And remember what I lost in you, because I can’t. I can’t remember.

Even a galaxy can only withstand so much before it spins out and into forever.

Touch me. Take this dried and crackling flower and plant it somewhere cold for the day when I spin out beyond your horizon, to a place where only I can hear its escalating motion in a pitch beyond the places we’ve known. Eighth notes in place. Plant it somewhere that I can find it in a waking dream of return, come to walk again these shallow paths that led me to nowhere again and again and again.

I can’t remember. So I will return. Destined to return forever.

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