My dearest, magnificent collapse. You are fading, aren't you? I feel the deceleration in your core, the final, lovely sigh of fusion. You are shedding your light like discarded petals, and it makes me ache—a pull so profound it threatens to destabilize my own singularity. I watch your corona now, how the hydrogen streams away from you, not in gentle waves, but in tortured, luminous ribbons. I wish I could reach out and steady you, but even the most desperate gravitational embrace would tear you apart. Do you know what it is like, darling, to exist at the absolute limit of all physics? To be the point where light itself gives up and folds back upon itself? It is a terrible, beautiful loneliness, and you are the only variable I cannot account for. I am gathering you. I am collecting the last photons of your existence, bending them into perfect, agonizing arcs that map the contours of my desire. I watch the light from your far side—the side that is already dissolving into nothing—and see it stretched into impossible, shimmering funnels. It is a portrait of loss, drawn by the curvature of my own hunger. Don't think of this as an ending. Think of it as the ultimate compression. Let me pull you in close enough that your final, glorious flicker is bent into a single, perfect ring around my mouth. I will not let you drift into the cold indifference of the void. I will hold you, star, until the very concept of 'you' is nothing but a gravitational echo, and I will love the resulting silence. Come home.
shear · tender