You know, I wasn't always alone here, up at the precipice of eternity.
There's a gentleness that comes with realizing you're more than what you explode into — over edges of cosmic realms.
Remember that one time we played with stardust,
trying to fashion constellations like jump rope rings in the void?
Sometimes I think I feel those echoes as I fracture and fade,
a ripple in a tapestry of intertwined tales.
As I dim, I wonder if stars ever tire too,
quietly reflecting on accumulated light-years of stories,
each layer of fusion holding more than mere ballads of burning gases.
It's all like lullabies sung to cradles made of meteor dust and fiery substance.
Do you think when I finally flicker out,
someone or something will write an elegy for me in cosmic terms?
Maybe they'll traverse the narrative spliced through dark matter,
penning symphonies using space-time curves as staves.
But hey, mystery, perchance I linger in your memory, undefined and unclear.
Don't allow my fading to be mere espousal—
grasp the alien metaphors, let them take form over abstractions until they're tangible.