error message

I like to think that we are made of stardust, 

anatomical pieces that you and I cannot explain.

I like to think that we are from the same star,

separated only by a few light years,

meant to find our way back home

to you. 

I like to think that every time I felt that spark, 

that you felt it too,

our atoms fusing once more. 

I like to think that you are as true 

as you seem,

when you tell me that you are not Mars,

but Earth. 

I like to think that Jupiter has seven rings

because that is seven more lifetimes

I have with you,

and not one. 

I like to think that when I die, with you,

our stardust will fall into the same black hole. 

I like to think that you didn't mean it,

when you handed me the Great Red Spot

that you were confused,

your atoms filled with electrons. 

I like to think that you loved me

like the world loved Curiosity,

even if I, too, sang in my lonesome. 

I like to think that it was an error message

because the satellites collided with Saturn,

not because you no longer wished to speak. 

I like to think that you saw me as 

your supernova,

dearest Casanova.

But you can only ignore false coding for so long,

until you are unable to decipher it anymore.