supernovae

My love is not the inconsistent moon;

It shies not away from the light of day.

Nor does it hide its face in shame

Or in its phases wax and wane. ­­

My love is not the blistering sun –

Though it simmers, it does not burn.

For from past folly, I have learned

How best to drive my loves away.

If pressed, I’d say my love is a star

Burning bright – incandescent in the dying light

Silent, and steadfast, and true. Yes –

If pressed, I’d say my love is a star –

But even stars, in due time, will wither.

And so my love left – not with a bang, but a whisper.