Fame Colored Stars
By Alyssa Mullally
if it’s any constellation, you won’t remember this in a year
or if we’re lucky, a few months. the stars aligned and disassembled like they do every day during their 9-5.
lighting the universe is tough work, and they always rotate on the clock. “we’re made of stardust, too,” our tech for brains replies, "sublime and negligible in the grand scheme of things."
we glow, we die, we compress, and, if we’re special, explode. everyone wants to be friends with a red giant until the end, and your living room is sucked into oblivion. icarus laughs at your table and your dinner party ruined.
—
you count the cost: $300 of roast duck, $5000 of hand-carved wooden furniture, and a questionable amount of fine porcelain from your past 3 marriages. expensive glowing friends need to be around expensive dull things.
the stars clock in again, twinkling and clicking, clock out, and start over again. we grow, we die, we expand, and if we’re special, we’re made new.
our tech for brains assure us on the next shipment of roast duck, hand-carved wooden furniture, and questionable amount of porcelain from your 4th marriage.
this time, icarus didn’t make it, because the stars aligned on the wrong side of history.
—
history clocked in and out. the stars wilt and fade then relight.
expensive glowing friends burn through the upholstery and the burnt plastic smell ruins the duck. the living room survives to see another red giant at its feet.
our tech for brains smiles because we met the supernova before its annihilation. we gloat, we die, we stagnate, and if we’re lucky, we’re forgotten.
the stars clock in and out, business as usual, and the living room is empty. the hand-carved wooden furniture is alone and content with no one to ask if it’s mahogany. your 4th marriage is still breathing by the fire with its porcelain teeth intact.
icarus never made it, and his invitation was returned to sender.
