To Play the Part of Me and You

We live in a world in which we dream of utopian visions found in the heavens sitting next to the stars. Stars that create an illusion of permanence. Flaring up, caving in. Supernovas that end in black holes that leave traces of their explosive magnificence hundreds of years after it's over and done with.

Watching this visual fiesta of bursting gases and energy and such, I can pretend that a moment can linger. A moment can last more than it should. I can pretend that things last. When I realise that love can actually go, I can pretend that love last a little longer.

And gods come, and gods go. Mortals flicker and flash and fade. Worlds don't last; and stars and galaxies are transient, fleeting things that twinkle like fireflies and vanish into cold and dust.

Yes, we can pretend. For what it's worth. We can pretend we are real. We can put on a great show and create something that scarcely exists. A dream of a ghost of a memory of a tryst that, one suspects, never existed in the first place.