I think a lot but I don’t
speak very often.

Sometimes I feel more connected to
splattering rainfall
than actual people.

You once compared me to the stars.
Was it because you think I’m beautiful
or because I’m constantly
collapsing in on myself?

Instead of quietly withering away,
maybe I’ll implode and
disintegrate into a brilliant inferno
of stardust.

Or will I become a black hole?