Dark matter of my heart – you can bruise and bully, but still the impulse to take care rises like the universe that throws up its hands, and never brings them back down again. Their ascent speeds until fingers fly apart, manicured fireworks – and my heart, too, is reeling out in many universes: a field of flowers blooming in fast-forward, and the pollen blowing to France, and no replacing the eggshells of our unspoken words, and no end but some cosmic burnout. At last we’ll care too much, be overstretched, throw up our hands knowing full well our arms…