I ache, my love, still in our own golden core, the central seed-centre, where words break away like splinters of stillness, when each of us stirs, for we feel the outside as too noisy.
Our star-aware mind circling our own orbit, extracts us from people.
You ache, when we want only love, adore one another, but grief enters to hurt, leads to mutations in our heartspace capsule.
Among all that grief it is fated that only we both should feel the hate from those who do not love, who are the empty chairs in a room beyond habitation.