I told you you’ll be a star, but I take it back.
It’s not something you lack, no;
I’d just rather not hand out with a big ball
of flaming magma that might fall
into itself at any given time.
Oh God no.
And I still want to be able to see
after look at you, and a blindingly
bright light sounds blinding to me.
I don’t want you to be miles and miles
from your home and your family and earth while
I need a telescope to see you.
I don’t want you to be an enigma
of science, I don’t want you to have the stigma
of being cliche.
So don’t be that.
I hope you won’t be that.
Please: be space.
Don’t give me space, though–
I want to be able to see you
without looking away
night and day.
I want to see you all around,
up and down the sky.
You wouldn’t be under pressure all the time,
and you wouldn’t be able to blind
anyone. I don’t want to need a rocket ship
to be able to chase you down.
Because I know who you are,
and so I want you to be everyplace–
Please don’t be a star.