The human heart is a galaxy in miniature.

No one ever says
what happens after “the end”,
all concise,
no loose ends.
No one says
how the moon turns to dust
as you lie and defend,
lie and defend.
But you're already dead and my eyes
bleed in green,
not in envy but because blue
is unbreathing, unchanging.
It is lifeless and cold and this
acid
in me
is very much alive,
eating away at the rings of a planet,
while lusting for its core.

Crack open your skull to let the smoke out.
Let the layers slough away like
skin, like
the dirt on ancient ruins,
built and silent on alien soil.
Let it leave and expose the once-live shell beneath.
But there is nothing to see here,
no tourist attraction built on old remorse;
only hollow spaces in this wreckage,
begging
to be filled with something
a little more substantial
than the ashes and deceit—
ashes of the moon that
burned up in its orbit
waiting for a truth
that never came.