Accretion

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She felt like a black hole—imploding on herself. She sucked in words and books, thoughts and feelings, Motown and tunes that made her legs shake and turned them into density; a large amount of matter condensed into a small space—any thing, anything, but nothing—a gravitational field so strong not even light could escape.

 

Read the stop signs before the point of no return.

 

But there are no hitchhiker’s guide to the galaxy, just a lot of stumbling in front of us (or is it behind us?)—time is relative. There are still first kisses before heartbreak, moments where you get lost in a record and the beauty of a moment before the needle sticks. But sometimes first kisses are last kisses. And sometimes the record keeps spinning.

 

Beware event horizons.

 

There was no stop before go, she was accumulating mass and hiding it. Scientists were baffled. She is not something to be observed directly; one must infer her presence.  It’s the careful gaze you give a deer before it bolts; you always sense it’s presence before you see it, before eye contact—there is no going back once seen. And it all started for her in the quietude of a morning, green grass and blackberry brambles, drenched in the night before like an impromptu skinny dip, her feelings for him began to collapse into themselves and pull inward.

 

She was pulling.

 

She was pooling. 

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