Supernova (someday, I will marry an astronomer, and we will dine on stardust)

But first, a general explanation! This is a re-write of a poem from roughly 2011 - hopefully, it's better than the previous one, which is pretty embarrassing. What I'll be doing in the next few blog posts up until my new stuff is posting my attempts at the thirty-one prompts, and re-writes of very old poems. At any rate, poem.

You are firing words into space at stars that will never understand.
Let them guess. Have you ever tried explaining to them that you'd like to
pluck them from where they stand to glue them to your ceiling?
They don't know you like I do. They don't know you're scared of the dark,
and comets and asteroids are tricky things. They'll burn a hole through your roof
so I hope you like the troposphere singeing your nostrils.

'What do you suppose stars do after they become supernovae?'
'They become neutron stars. Or black holes, I guess.'
You went quiet after that.

Maybe I should have said that they stay beautiful forever like Hollywood
would have you believe. I could have said that they blaze on and on
for as long as the universe wants to keep us held in the clutches of spiral
galaxies, that they linger on and become what makes up a newborn child
and the last breath of people who have seen eight decades and more. That
they filter down into the shells of your ears and become the fabric and sinew
of what dreams taste like. They taste like cotton candy, by the way.

'If you could be anything astronomical, what would you be?'
'I'd be a comet. No, an astronomer, to be able to see all of that.
Or maybe I'd be a comet and marry an astronomer. What about you?'
'I'd be a supernova. Beautiful, and then I'd hope to become a black hole.
When I go down, everything is going down with me.'