chance

Your words are the radio pulse drifting 
through light years, a beautiful frequency 
disembodied beyond time. Isolated from 
the collective hum of countless stars busy 
reaching through dark matter, a void only 
in perception. if I am star stuff it is the failed
remnants, the reactions that didn't take, a 
victim of bad math. The odds climb 186,000
miles a second, not everyone can bloom 
into a hydrogen furnace




.