The ones who love us best are the ones we’ll lay to rest
And visit their graves on holidays at best.
The ones who love us least are the ones we’ll die to please
If it’s any consolation, I don’t begin to understand…
How many of those ancient points of light were the last echoes of suns now dead? How many have been born but their light not yet come this far? If all the suns but ours collapsed tonight, how many lifetimes would it take us to realize that we were alone?