Eyelashes

Maybe that was it! The only chance that it could have existed, the slightest of gaps, like the air between eyelashes. Then gone. Like the path of Luke to destroy the Death Star–atomised and hurtling through space in a mass of infinite shiny metallic shards. Like how forest fires erupt from thrown down lighting how they suck in all the air around them and irrationality so, wailing, striping bark back to sap spitting vapourised tree vomit out, sucking in the free air gulping down oxygen engulfing us both in blankets of soot and ash, that black tarnished sky flotsam free chaos debris that can’t be put back together that drifts and drifts and drifts outward, outward over polyandric potholes and drifts over broken one-way communicative flat battery radios and falls and mixes in with ink so well I can write this poem and falls like an albatross of death on your hair making it even blacker and it makes your eyes deeper and harder to read and the space between your left be-freckled stars even further away.