Old Jupiter Knows

It may be true:

my pain,

a dust bunny

kicked up in this hop

through time—

but still,

it feels like:

bedrock torn,

existence cleaved,

stars

— ousted —

into black.

Maybe both truths

can interweave:

neither dimming

nor igniting

the other’s flicker.

To cradle the universe—

to feel it flinch.

To weather moulting seasons,

the limpid gnaw of time,

supernovas — blinking shut —

bone-tired, ancient eyes.

To meet reckoning—

not in ruin,

but in breathless,

starless vacuum.

(and the abyss hums)

One:

a whisper

folded into

fleeting moments—

The other:

destroyer of worlds.

One:

boundless eons—

haunting—

The other:

a bruised chest

still quivering—

fragile as ghost-feet

traipsing

the night.

Even if no human

could fathom this,

(too infinite for one chest),

the water bears listen,

earthworms turn

memory’s soil,

and Old Jupiter—solemn sentry—

tends her vigil.

But I have broken enough,

bled enough,

to know:

this pain engulfs

Mnemosyne’s river—

no exception.

And Death,

first and final witness,

tattoos invitations

into the marrow

of every soul.