Take a picture of the sun; in the center of it, sometimes, if you’re careful, that’s where you’ll see it.

A tiny black speck. In the heart of all the light. Antibright. It’s a shadow in the middle of the white, a place where there’s so much light, it swallows itself to nothing. So intense, so vibrant, so pure, it passes what we can think of as ‘light’ and comes back, full circle. It becomes the perfect dark.

You’re like that to me, sometimes. So terribly perfect in how you love me, how you complete me, how you fill the places of me that I didn’t realize were lacking, there’s something in you, in the very center, a piece that’s hollowed and hungry and crushing. A black hole located somewhere around the center of your chest.

It draws me in, suffocates me with too much air, deafens me with silence, strips me of taste with the flavor of the heat of you, numbs me with a lack of touch and blinds me with your dark.

I don’t know how you do it, but I’m well past the event horizon of your heart.

About Catastrophe Jones

Wretched word-goblin with enough interests that they're not particularly awesome at any of them. Terrible self-esteem and yet prone to hilarious bouts of hubris. Full of the worst flavors of self-awareness. Owns far too many craft supplies. Will sing to you at the slightest provocation.
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