Atlas.

Someone had once called her Atlas—

Not because she used cardinal directions,

Though this was also true—

But because he could see that

She carried the weight of the world on her shoulders.

And though she smiled all the while,

He could see that her soles were sinking

Deeper and deeper into the cosmos,

Threatening to swallow her whole.

As the pit beneath her widened its maw,

And constellations formed 

Jagged fangs around her ankles,

He didn't realize that 

She'd found an Atlas too.

She'd sworn long ago that

No matter the depth

Of her own cosmic pool

She would blaze across nebulae

And burn herself blue 

If it meant saving him.

She would race against comets

And learn to balance galaxies on her back

If it kept him from crumbling

Under the weight of his own world.

An unspoken admission

Between celestial bodies

They each were a god in their own rite

Not just for themselves,

But for so many others—

And that very well may be

What kept them alive.