Last week, I vowed to write little poem letters to PSO J318.5-22. It didn’t take long for my spherical muse to evolve into a silent therapist because there’s an emotional safety net in writing letters to something that’s 80 light years away.
However, some of y’all wanted to see the results so I’m going to be a good sport and share one of my letters (ok, this is actually an edited version of two combined letters).
I encourage you to hug someone you love. Happy Thanksgiving!
Dear PSO J318.5-22,
You don’t understand what I’m saying.
How could you? Yet I want to tell you
about the time I stuck a lollipop
in my mouth and it came out bloody.
But also beautiful. The swirling, I mean.
Also I have this habit of pulling
on my necklaces and I bought the most perfect
and simple string of black beads
from a yard sale one summer
and a year later I pulled and it snapped
in the Houston airport and I felt dizzy
watching the beads roll over themselves
until they were swallowed by the chaos
of baggage claim. Sometimes the things we love
turn away from us. And sometimes we get home
and find a black bead hidden in our bra.
I’m just saying the universe is unending and who knows
what you’ve left behind. In the beginning,
we thought all stars had parents but
in the beginning, we also thought we
were all that existed. We’re all so afraid
of the dark, but when I’m scared
I close my eyes and what the hell
do we know about space anyways.
In the beginning, I was born bloody
and messy, like everyone else.
If I could write you a friend, I would. And yet
loneliness tastes different when there’s someone
to bear witness. It becomes a solid thing, a stone
on the tongue and I know this because I’m telling you
something you’re too big to understand. Sometimes
friendship is a decision, sometimes a surprise
so let’s talk about the absence of light
and how imagination throws a cloak over blindness.
I will always believe you, even when you’re silent.