If we are all born from stardust, then heartbreak is a black hole.
Spiralling until the Milky Way is just a street you used to walk down, hand in
and Orion’s belt dims down to freckles on an arm you no longer see.

For on the day the atmosphere collapsed,
it was as if I ceased to be Venus, and instead became floating rubble,
(a worry of destruction, but mostly aimless)
waiting and waiting for the sun to hit me again, waiting and waiting.

A lack of gravity as I drift above myself,
images from a sci-fi, draining power levels heading to a crash;

But god knows life is not cinemas and tough love makes the world go round.

So the heroine presses eject and plummets,
but the planets turn, and soon
light, colour, motion,

Venus never ceased to be if she is self-aware.
And so if we are all born from stardust, it’s what we will always be.


Read more of Lucy’s poetry on her blog: absence/evidence.


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