supernova-garbage

[supernova-garbage]

Forever trapped in the cage of your heart.

I have the key and yet I cannot bear to use it. The blue sky outside seems to call my name and yet I cannot answer. My voice is tied in knots and I feel as if it will never untangle. My soul is stuck in this cage, longing for every bit of your attention I can get.

I stay even though you do not care for me. You do not feed me. You do not bring me water. Most days you forget that I’m here, and you don’t like it when I remind you.

My wings, that have long forgotten their purpose, now only exist to shield me from your icy looks and brass words.

And I will not remind them how to soar in the sky. I will stay here, a rusted key in my hand, and hope that you can forgive me for the sin of being me.

And one day you will find me in the cage, my body lifeless, and you won’t care enough to cry.

Because you’ve never truly loved me. At least not in the ways you said you did. And you will bury me in a place that you wont be able to recall later.

And from my corpse a beautiful flower will grow. So that maybe, just for a moment, I’ll be quiet normal selfless pretty healthy sweet good enough to finally make you love me.

[supernova-garbage]

I am in your power like a ship on a stormy sea. The sky is starless, dark as your soul, and I couldn’t find my way back to the shore even if I wanted to.

But I don’t want to.

Because I know in the morning all will be well again. Your waters will be calm and blue, shining and shimmering like your eyes do when you laugh. The sun will warm us both, and the night will be nothing but a distant memory.

And I know the storm will be back. Eventually.

But until I drown beneath the waves of your hatred, I will savour every drop of your love.

[supernova-garbage]

You are my stars and my moon. My sunshine and rainbows. My lightning and thunder and mist and raindrops.

I love you the way the moon loves the sun, the way winter loves spring, the way a candle loves its flame.

I love you in a way that shouldn’t be allowed, because we are supposed to love god or ourselves above all else, but how could I, when you exist in this world?

I love you in a way that won’t be lost to time nor space. In a way that will still be here even when we are long gone.

Poets will write about my love for you, and bards will sing about it to the world, even if they didn’t know us, for my feelings are what people imagine when they think of a love that is true and undying.

My feelings for you are the very essence of love itself.

And I hope you never forget that.

But even if you do I’ll keep reminding you until we are both nothing but stardust among the cosmos.

[supernova-garbage]

You asked me how you look?

Were I not scared for your safety from Aphrodite’s wrath, I’d say how even she, the goddess of beauty, pales in your comparison. For she looks as every person’s truest idea of beauty, and you are mine, so the only thing that would differ is your soul. But my gods darling, what a soul it is you have.

Were she still alive, Sappho herself would write countless poems dedicated to your beauty. Though she is not with us anymore, each time I gaze upon you, I feel her spirit, longing to express my love and affection, with me still.

[supernova-garbage]

Short story: “Letters from the lighthouse”

The lighthouse stood like a weary guardian at the edge of a cliff, its stones weathered and scarred by years of salt and wind. Within its aging walls, a lone keeper tended to his duties, his movements methodical, his life tethered to this solitary tower.

The lighthouse was old, much like him, and as the keeper worked, he often thought of how they had seen so many fierce storms together. Time had left its mark on the building, as well as his face. Lines of endurance and loneliness were etched into him, just like they were etched into the stones that made the lighthouse.

When he had finished his tasks for the night, he put on his aged coat and stepped out into the windy air of the morning. He made his way to the old mailbox, that stood near the edge of the cliff. Inside the mailbox, he found a single white envelope, the address scrawled on it with messy handwriting that brought the hint of a smile to his eyes.

Back in his modest quarters, he lit a dim lamp and opened the paper with care, his calloused hands shaking slightly. The words spoke of wonderful people, a voyage to distant lands he had never heard of, dangerous seas that had claimed many lives, and the eagerness to return home. The letter described the warmth of tropical rains, the scent of unknown spices in the air, and the friendship of a crew bound by adventure. The letter ended with a simple, heartfelt wish: "I hope to see you soon, brother.”

Another day passed asleep in the squeaky bed that was probably older than the world itself, the lighthouse keepers dreams as solitary as his life, and another night was spent in the quiet rhythm of his work. At night, he tended the light, ensuring its steady beam pierced the darkness and warned distant ships of the dangerous rocks below the waves.

That evening, another letter was waiting for him in the mailbox. He opened it eagerly, the familiar handwriting a small comfort in his solitude. Once more, the letter spoke of adventures far and wide, but this time, it included an odd detail: a mention of a leaky window the keeper had repaired just yesterday. He frowned, trying to recall if he had written about it in his reply. Perhaps he had—it was hard to remember. Shaking off the thought, he wrote his response and left it outside for the mailman.

The following day brought a more pressing concern. The storm was drawing closer, its dark clouds already looming on the horizon, and the oil reserves were dangerously low. The delivery, delayed by rough seas, might not arrive in time.

That evening, another letter awaited him. He read it by the dim light of his desk lamp, his fingers lingering over the paper. The letter offered reassurances, even addressing his fears about the oil shortage.

The handwriting was unmistakably his brother's, but for the first time, he noticed its uncanny similarity to his own.

The keeper's unease grew, but he pushed it aside. It was just a coincidence, he told himself. Family members' resemblance to each other.

The storm finally started with ferocity, its winds rocking the lighthouse more and more as the storm grew with each passing moment. Waves crashed against the cliff, sending water high into the air. Inside the lighthouse, the keeper worked tirelessly, fighting against exhaustion to keep the light burning.

In a brief lull, he checked the mailbox once more. Another letter was there, soaked at the edges by the rain. It was full of comforting words, speaking directly to the fears that gnawed at him in the darkness of the storm.

Back at his desk, he began to write a reply but was interrupted by a worrying noise from above. The light needed tending. He left the unfinished letter on the table and hurriedly climbed up the stairs, his joints protesting with each step.

In the dead of night, when the storm was at its fiercest, the keeper descended to his quarters for a brief moment of rest from the storm.

His eyes fell on the letter he had left on the desk. It lay open, the ink still gleaming faintly in the dim light. He picked it up, his gaze reading over the lines he had written earlier. Something about it nagged at him, like an itch beneath his skin.

He reached into the drawer where he kept the letters from his brother and laid them side by side with the one he'd just written. A chill, colder than the wind outside, seeped into his bones as he scanned the words. The handwriting was the same—not just in style, but in every loop and flourish. His brother's voice, his comforting words and tales of far away adventures... they were his own.

The realization came slowly at first, creeping like the tide. But then it surged, a flood of memories crashing over him.

His brother's face, sunburnt and smiling, waving as he boarded a ship many years ago. The news of the wreck that followed months later, delivered with trembling voices and quiet condolences. The grave on the hillside where the town had buried an empty coffin, marked with his brother's name.

His legs gave way, and he sank into the chair. The letters, they were all his. His own mind, desperate to fill the void that his brother's death had left, had conjured them. He had been writing to himself, answering himself, clinging to the ghost of a loved one that no longer existed.

The storm outside howled like a vengeful spirit, ready to take its revenge on the world, rattling the windows as if mocking his grief. His chest tightened, the weight of years of solitude pressing down on him. He clutched the letters to his chest, a choked sob escaping his lips.

Then, a flash of light filled the room, so bright it seemed to tear through the air itself. A thunderous crack followed, and the world around him shuddered violently. The walls groaned as the stones began to give way.

He had no time to run, no time to save himself. The last thought that passed through his mind, as the world collapsed around him, was of his brother.

The memory was fleeting but vivid: two boys laughing as they ran along the rocky shore, their mother calling them back before the tide came in. A warmth, a presence, a love that was real.

Then everything was swallowed by the dark.

When the storm cleared the next morning, the townspeople came to investigate the ruin of the lighthouse. They sifted through the rubble until they found the keeper's body, clutching a crumpled, smudged letter in his hands.

The words were illegible, but the sight was moving without the knowledge of what had been his last thoughts. The keeper was buried beside his brother, their graves overlooking the sea. The lighthouse was never rebuilt, its light extinguished forever.

But sometimes, on stormy nights, sailors swore they could see a faint beam of light cutting through the darkness—a final act of devotion from the keeper and his brother, reunited at last.

the end

[supernova-garbage]

Angel feathers fall

Beauty is this frozen land

Silent and deadly

[supernova-garbage]

Dancing with cosmos

Dying stars as our music

We are eternal