[204 words]
They don’t tell you this,
but when a star dies,
it burns so hot,
the atoms forget themselves.
It gets so bright,
so wild,
the heat feels—cold.
Because even fire
falls apart.
Even the universe cracks sometimes.
I think about that
when your hand brushed mine last summer,
when the asphalt sagged under our feet,
when the cicadas screamed—
like they were in love
or dying—
some days I can’t tell the difference.
They say if you burn bright enough,
your body stops feeling pain.
It hums—
hollow—
right before everything breaks.
I want that.
Not warm.
Not safe.
Nova-hot.
So hot the walls melt,
so hot the sky forgets its color,
so hot your voice
shakes
when you say my name,
so hot the gods lean in to watch.
You ever touch a stove,
and it feels cold—just for a second?
That’s love.
That’s grief.
That’s forever—
when you run straight into it
and don’t look back.
I want to be that—
so hot the oceans peel from the shore,
so hot the stars forget their names,
so hot I feel nothing but quiet,
but sure.
Because that’s what stars do
when they’ve given everything.
They don’t fade.
They don’t fall.
They explode
Joshua Walker is an independent poet whose work blends formal craft with raw emotional intensity. His poems have appeared in Potomac Review, SoFloPoJo, Solarpunk, and numerous other literary journals. With over 310,000 followers across social media, Joshua’s voice bridges traditional and contemporary poetics, weaving sharp imagery with musicality and wit. He explores themes of resilience, identity, and human complexity, always attuned to the tension between line and sentence.
