Sir, you are a comet.
You are cosmic.
She holds the dead star you gave her,
clutches it like a baby clutches her teddy,
just a little scaredy.
She sits with her dolls,
forcing her manifestations of lifeless smiles
to listen to the radio frequency of songs
that play music for choreography of a dead star.
His comet will pass through her atmosphere once in a while
as she clutches on tight to her dollies,
remembering the dance she used to love,
if only she didn’t step on toes.
The radio serves a purpose in her world,
enough to keep her baby dolls listening
to the soothing lullaby that once soothed her.
Now the radio is a static reminder
that the star is dead,
the comet is peripheral
and fleeting,
monitoring a reality
that no longer exists.
The dust is her savior.
The static pacifies her to sleep.
Her stuffies and plushies stare longingly at the window.
Where did the comet go?
Just listen.
Just listen.
Sit and be still.
