Interstellar Sonata

photo background credits here, edited.

by sneha joseph

Dedicated to a dear friend of mine



We are burning out.
We are red-hot celestial bodies, filled to the brim with stardust,
And we shine,
Until we burn out.

But are the quintessence memories of our supernovas,
Enough to compensate for the great void that comes after?


She loved stargazing.
With thoughts of space and stars,
Heavily pervading the crevices of her heart,
The echoes of sadness and silence were easily erased.

Submerged in lunar incense
Of the balming night.
She struggled,
With much alacrity,
To find the right words to describe
A star.

The star she failed to see she was.

a soft collapse,
red-velvet ambiance
cherished arms.
(littered with scars.)

They only saw a face that beamed
With a luminosity that was striking.

But maybe they’ve forgotten
That a star’s light shines the brightest,
When it’s starting to collapse.


And collapse she did.

Filling the starry abyssal canvases
With incandescent hues;
But soon after,
Those myriad of colours
Were metamorphosed into hues of monochrome
Devoid of light.

A blackhole.


As he gained velocity
And ripped through space-time,
The absence of sound
Morphed into the deafening winds of the cosmos.

He was dreaming –

Dreaming of the blackholes,
Her irises had been.

Fingers glided fervently over the pristine paper
With chalk,
As he fervently tried to draw her irises.

(Black, they were black.)

But black was too uncouth.
After all, would you call the hues of the unilluminated heavens just black?


She set out to be a supernova;
And a supernova she was.

But as the whirlwind of colours ceased,
Her absence had created a blackhole.

Now he misses the ceaseless whirlwind of colours,
And the star she was.

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