help me quench my thirst for Infinity

[ciette]

for the darkness only serves to vacuum (my) beginnings
of star children who ride on memories of broken constellations,
surfing down the Milky Way in a precarious simulation of an adventure.

The wind skimming their skin falls apart in evasive chemical equations
(as their bodies gradually disintegrate with the sandpaper friction of pining
that stretches 
like taut strings of a Cat's
Cradle from

what used to
be a
refuge.)

__

It's a complex feeling when someone wishes you could be erased.

I don't really know what expression to make in response to that.