I often wonder what it would be like to be a galaxy.
To be shaped by gravity.
To drink deeply from the reservoirs of gas that rain down on me.
To be made of stars as numerous as cells, shining stubbornly into the void.
To look out and see my kind like grains of sand in the sky.
To have arms lit up by star formation and a skeleton of cold dust.
I might have companions, or satellites, or prey.
I might be that to one larger than myself.
I might gorge myself on another, and as I eat I might scream into the sky with such ferocity that I can be seen from across infinity.
I might be alone.
I might be one among many.
Another finds me.
Another falls into me.
We can do nothing but fall together.
We excite each other, we distort each other, we tear each other apart.
We perform a dance of destruction, a tidal waltz leaving our lifeblood behind to trace our paths.
My arms burn with the blazing light of a billion blue stars, born from my gas.
My nucleus is dragged from my warped and shattered disc.
We touch.
We are The Creation of Adam on a cosmic scale, outstretched arms brushing against each other.
We are giver and receiver of matter, fueling a starburst like the spark of life.
The gap left between us does not represent the impossibility of perfection;
The gap left between us is a promise that we are not yet done.
Will my core spit jets of smashed atoms ten thousand light years long as my unseen heart feasts?
Will I create new clusters of stars to fill our future halo with a testament to our violent past?
Will there be anything left to identify what I once was?
Will I only be recognizable as an echo to be seen in ten billion years?
Our shapes are still darkened with dust, for now.
Our curves are accented with the tortured red of nebulae as they are blown away by the stars they form.
Everything that has not yet become a star soon will.
We are two messy whorls of imperfection.
We will be one.
We are beautiful.
