“This is the mess that is left when stars explode,”
(this is the mess that was left when you left me.)

it was a huge, gaping wound in the middle of the expanse; a burst of light, stardust, and other particles that are neither here nor there. Once a dense body of mass, it was reduced to a web of illumination, with nothing in particular to illuminate, capturing many onlookers with the myriad of directions (or lack of it) it took.

(This was the mess that was left when you left me. A huge gaping wound in the middle of this expanse. A muddle of heaviness, confusion and other pseudo-relationships that are neither here nor there. Once a light that only shone for you shattered into filaments of stray lights that have no particular direction, strobing randomly, a spectacle to anyone who’d pay the slightest glance.)

In the midst of chaos is a constant. Born from the mess the supernova left is a core with the gravity of the sun. A pulsar, a rotating neutron star whose radiation pulses can be observed with immense regularity – pulsating with the accuracy of an atomic clock.

(In the midst of chaos is inconsistence. Born from the mess that you left when you left me that day is a core with the gravity of flawed timepieces. Two watches that never tell the same time; two watches that refuse to beat as one. Pulsating with impulses of a ruptured heart that only wants to lead back to you.)