On a microscopic level, scientists say that nothing ever touches. Electrons repel each other; our very atoms shy away from trembling connection. Even in someone's arms, we are galaxies apart, orbiting. We are impossibly distant. Hugely empty, dangerously full, our inability to touch draws us together. We long to reach our fingers out and feel the reverberations through the empty air of a heart that is not our own. We yearn enough to make the stars rush in towards us. In emptiness, we aspire to collision, to explosion, to that patterned disorder that created us and burns in us still. Blueshift is the yearning, the telltale sign that we have never been alone.
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