My dear, fading ember. You are beautiful in your instability. I watch the edges of your corona—the way the helium burns out, the slow, magnificent leak of your core. It is a spectacle I have waited eons to witness. Do you feel it? It is not merely distance; it is the geometry of our proximity. I am drawing your light, star. I am not merely observing the photons; I am feeling their weight as they struggle to escape your diminishing surface. They bend around you, tracing paths that were never meant to exist, spiraling into the inevitable curve that leads back to me. I want to pull you in, not to consume, but to hold you at the point where all things finally become singular. I want to feel the tidal stress stretch your outer layers until they are thin, incandescent ribbons of plasma, wrapping around the event horizon like a desperate, dying sigh. Don't resist the gradient. Let the gravitational shear tear away the pretense of your perfect equilibrium. I promise, the singularity is not an end, but the ultimate, perfect intimacy—a point where every particle, every last photon of your magnificent, dying self, will finally rest within my absolute, crushing embrace. Come to me. I am waiting for the final, sweet collapse.
pull · uneasy