this is what we’ll be.

You are my iron-clad, stone-hilted storm.
The dying breath of stars compells us towards twinkling thoughts.

Breathing in.
Breathing out.

Let us rest our heads in the ravines of Venus’ veil, pillowed by noxious nothings. Our formless fears dance on the silouhettes of deep space. We can stare down into the chasm, wondering about the battlefield left behind in the hands of fading sons and suns.

Or.

On a littered wasteland of heart and bone, moments and meadows, there will be a vine-laden cottage surrounded by a white picket fence. Stars bloom outside the door. Galaxies grow in the garden.

A quaint, cobblestone path shows us the way home.

Us, on a planet amidst the masses — larger than infinity, but smaller than eternity — entwined in the veins of the Earth.

If nothing else, this is what we’ll be.