Sucking in on instinct, automatic, tearing apart and ripping. Nothingness, more than nothingness, the ability to create nothingness. That’s what I am, what I do. Destroying constellations that get too close. Black hole, they call me. And I guess they got it right. Nothingness, both more and less than nothingness. I met a wormhole once, from afar. They transported the nimble ships of explorers. They were sought out, not avoided. Wormhole seemed to feel we were similar, in our essence, perhaps due to our hole-y natures. They sent me a message on a shooting star, and I promptly sucked it in, tore it apart. Turned it to nothingness, part of me in its nothingness. But I was able to receive its message. Wormhole described a life of being sought out, studied by fascinated minds. A life of creating shortcuts and collapses in space-time.
I tried to send them a message back. I am only an absence, I sent. And there was silence on the other end. Perhaps the message didn’t escape my gravity. I waited for decades, centuries. I sucked an explorer’s ship into myself, even though I knew I was not what they were looking for. I’m never what they are looking for; they can’t even see me.
A night that could have been day or perhaps was only nothing, I tried to send another message: Wormhole, I’m sorry I never responded, or maybe you didn’t get my message. I find you interesting too. Tell me what it’s like to be wanted, tell me what it’s like to be a path to somewhere instead of nowhere, please tell me. But the message pulled apart before it even existed.