When I die and you live

I want it all: the fire, lightning, a pulsing prism, a cellular storm

until I am about to explode

a star

on the edge of death is quite beautiful.

But how much more stunning might a living star be, than a dying or dead star?

I’ll be a supernova.

We will be supernovas.

Burning

in color and spark like silent fireworks padded by a black sky

we hold hands as we teeter,

slowly at first, two bruised and unfurled and full humans in love.

Like the fiddlehead ferns and the green spring grass and the cherry blossom trees.

With one finger I

lightly caress your arm

inviting

this vital powder

to seep into your skin.

It helps me to know we are all sprinkled with this star dust.

After the explosion, our cosmic dust showers the ones who remain.

It’s both poisoned and pure:

filled with the rage of mistakes, the hurt we’ve wrought, the pain that’s rained upon us,

but

don’t forget ecstasy, the way love holds and sustains, the ancestral wisdom we often choose to ignore,

the building blocks of everything that is and ever was.

When I die, I will leave behind a chromatic cloud of Holi powder that sticks to your skin and rests on your tongue.

Shake it from your hair and shake your whole body and watch the particles float

Cry

to dampen the dust / a watercolor wash of your cheeks, your lips, your chin.

Then remember: You are alive. What does it feel like?