Nebulae

Aanum Khan '26

& when they ask us where we are from, finger the lace
between index finger & thumb, the confusion painted
like oils on canvas, like cheap acrylics twisted into
confusion, there is no one answer. it is easy to say

nothing & even easier to follow the sheep onto cliffs
with unthought-of words—it is easier to be somebody
else instead of you; would you jump? it is already night
time & the breeze whistles our names, the night mixing

its innocent gloss on us. frolicking the way we know how,
we waltz with the sky like swirling nebulae & we are
the remnants of dying stars. it is not a funeral but a celebration
of life & cosmic dust only serves to decorate our tombs.