Erring is as human as colossal mass is to a star; all consuming and heavy, but yet, bringing forth a luminacity that pierces even the empty sky. It brightens and charms, distant and afar, in a way no perfection could reach.

The human is a spectacular failure.

I could not even dream to be worshipped like their faults because out of their wrongdoings and misjudgements, of despair and self imposed suffering, humans are daughters of delicate Hope and the unreasonablely vulnerable Passion, her recent star crossed lover.

It is an absured thirst for living, without clear direction or objective, that guides them, erected by the hands that feed and the lips that sustain. Then soon by the mouth that kisses, and the tongue that lets warm, tingling rum down their throat, though I do not know what is supposed to come next.

because I cannot understand

when they count to 10 and fall short of 11,

or when they decide to sit silent on a train,

or how they continue to forgive the misteps of every lover which will come time and time again.

How can humans do this.

How can they be creatures of intamacy and intricate care when heartfelt love does often lead to despair. How do they see each other knowing they will die? How will they know what to do when they have to say goodbye?

It seems to be a noble farewell against unchallengeable mortality, like a telescope pointed into the deep night, managing to find the light where all is dark.

How could I ever know to do that; to find that light. I could find out why it rains, I could find out what makes the stars move, and I could find out the exact weight of a rocket rolled out in 1982. But, I cannot find out their truth, even if I too have failed.

because I am not human.

I am not a spectacular failure.

I was always,

just,

wrong.