passing constellations

Million years from tonight,
the question of
"how long would I love you?"
won't matter much.
Such insignificant utterance
when we're nothing
but disintegrated bodies,
long extinguished neural sparks,
and remains dissected to molecules.
It wont matter-
as passion will stay
even when Gaia swallowed whole,
and all nine are now debris.
As mine will ascend
to the constellations high in its mighty propulsion.
Circumambulating existences,
and trading bedtime stories with fellow deities.
In a backdrop of cosmic colours, eternal celebration
of the ageing universe.
A testament to the once living,
that love is immortal.