You and the galaxy share 97% of the same atoms. And all the time stars die, but every year seven new stars are born in the Milky Way.
I like to believe that we are all the parts of the things and people we love. I swear sometimes I hear my grandmother’s laugh echoing in the folds of my own and that when I lick my wounds I can taste the resilience of my ancestors. That a part of my soul is made of stardust, and my heart is full of sunlight, and my tears are borrowed from the ocean.
And so when I remember the night you told me you loved me, tears down our faces, I remember that together, we are reckless tides and galaxies colliding. We are every cliché in every romance novel I’ve ever read. We are stars so bright they combust. Galaxies so big they expand. Hearts so large they must orbit to come back to us.
I don’t think you know this, but you are a cluster of all the good things. Like the feeling after you’ve done something that terrifies you. Or when your head finally hits the pillow after a long day. You are like the smell of the earth right after it rains or when you hear a song that makes your heart beat a little faster or when I wake up and nothing hurts.
I don’t think you know this, but when the universe birthed you, you were also one of the seven stars. I know because I stopped looking up to find the big dipper in the sky and I stopped gazing at the moon from my window. And I started to look at you. And I know that we are so small in the grand scheme, in the bigger picture, in the eyes of the galaxy, but I guarantee you that when you held me that last time, I knew I was wrapped in the entire universe. That the year you were born the other six were out shined.
I know that the galaxy and I share the same atoms. That parts of me are also the bad parts. That I will consume myself too much in the good things. That I will let the song play until everyone wants the music to end. That I will hold you so tight that your lungs forget how to breathe. That I’ll let the sun shine but forget that we are not built to live in deserts. Because maybe I think if I am dripping in your starlight then you will cease to see all the bad parts that I’ve tried to hide instead of finding the courage to fix.
So some days, I try not to fight the tears. Because now I find comfort in knowing that every time I cry, there are waves in the ocean that only get stronger. And I remember that even in the places that don’t see sunshine, there is still growth. And when the stars disappear in the morning, they still always come back at night.
And if I am part of all the things I love, I’ll still have a part of you.