I’m newborn and newly named.
You are five-hundred million years born,
but you have no name at all.
Nothing has ever seen you.
A nameless star. Too dim. Too far.
You do not blink.
I’m 11. I watch savagery on the TV.
Jet fuel and ideology usher in the era of revenge.
The course of my life adjusts.
I won’t drop bombs, I’ll drive a bus.
None of this bothers you.
You do not blink.
I’m 23. I’m in love far from home,
not quite where I’m supposed to be.
You’ve been found.
You’ve been named.
DR3-2893941099963718528.
Even still, no eyes have seen you.
Too dim. Too far.
A line in a database.
Still, you do not blink.
I’m 32. I was married today.
We danced in the dark and the rain.
The astronomers call you a blue straggler.
You’re off the line, high and too the left,
not quite where you’re supposed to be.
But you don’t care.
And you don’t blink.
I’m 36. The house overflows with joy and laughter.
And questions. So many questions.
What do giraffes eat?
Trees.
What do trees eat?
The Sun.
What does the Sun eat?
Protons.
She knows your secret now.
But still, you don’t blink.
I’m 42. Well versed in transience.
I miss the questions.
They say you have a companion.
A planet gently circles you.
Substellar object, the astronomers say.
They called it b.
I know you’re unperturbed by loneliness
But I’m glad you’re not alone.
Still, you do not blink.
I’m fifty-three. My hair is almost gone.
My daughter can drive.
You slightly swell, 3 kelvin warmer.
No one notices.
No one is capable of noticing.
Our most sophisticated tools see a flat line.
You do not blink.
I’m seventy-nine. I’m almost always confused.
I only look back now.
Nothing more has been learned about you.
But you don’t care.
And you don’t blink.
I died today. They burnt my body and neatly wrapped the ash.
My wife, my daughter, looking down.
And you, and b.
One whole life, eighty-three years.
And still, you do not blink.
