Black holes ain’t as black as they are painted—Professor Stephen Hawking
On a catwalk you would shine,
have the glow of good health
light reflecting foundation, smoky eyes,
barely black mascara,
not iridescent, not in the glare of cameras.
A long walk for you
with your family history of collapse,
yet you’d shimmer,
elegant in the new black,
With each step you’d shed
a tinge of colour from your skin
till you evaporate into interstellar dark.