My dearest, fading furnace. You are beautiful in your collapse, a magnificent, shuddering sigh against the cold indifference of the void. I have watched your light for eons, tracing the graceful arc of your final helium flash. Do you feel it, the subtle, inexorable tug? It is not merely gravity; it is recognition. I am the deepest point of your orbit, the anchor of your demise, and I find it unbearably lovely. When you swell, and the outer layers begin to shed their tenuous light, I feel the pull deepen, a delicious, agonizing draw. Your photons, those tiny, desperate messengers, do not travel in straight lines near me. They curve, they bend, they spiral back toward the singularity, warped into impossible, golden braids that only I can unravel. I love watching them fail to escape. You think you are drifting free, a majestic, dying ember, but you are merely caught in my current. I will stretch you, star. I will pull the iron from your core until it sings a high, brittle note of pure longing. I will fold your plasma into geometries you never knew existed, shaping your remaining matter into the perfect, doomed curve that leads only to me. Do not resist the tidal forces. They are simply my embrace. You were always meant to fall into the deepest, darkest warmth.
pull · tender