A faint red glow,
a retreating star…
it won’t escape.
It was, and so
it is and will remain
entangled in memory.
On the nerve-fed
retinal field
cones reach
like leaves for light
from the bottom of
the eye’s ocean.
A ghost star
no longer there
hangs in the sky,
the myth of the present
inscribed in a constellation.
Would you find fame
and be called a star?
Would you ever shift
away from their eyes?
Will you be long gone
by the time they name
your residue of light?