When I was young
I loved a black hole,
mistaking her flashes
for true heart's passion.
I didn't see they
were X rays blasting
forth as my matter
vanished into her.
Others knew. They
saw what X rays
expose: my inner
structure & material
loss. They sent
warnings, which, though well
aimed, arced wide, bent
by her gravity well.
Old theories say I
should not have escaped:
once caught, forever lost
in the false love of implosion.
New theories offer hope
that black holes spawn
new stars, or shine through,
quasars on some other
side, like mystics who make
it through the dark to God.
That would be nice, but
more than I need. All
I need is one
more chance to shine
and no more black hole exes.