Nebula

shaking rhythm like stylus pen on punctured paper, I move to move my Self in silent form across the slippery sanctuary of being. being is the only thing that hurts when time turns to dust and rusts in space between mattress and floor yet- what is space anyway? but a hundred billion atoms in between you and I- when once it felt like none when once it felt as if only separation was our skin bagged bodies between our souls and eternity softly kissing the crevice of a second. but now… just shaking rhythm- shaking, silent, spaciousness from one withering star to another- ebbing light licking itself from the atmosphere with nothing to keep it warm but the nebula to our next life.