Ti |amiros
Starlight. Soft quiet good light. Kind callous bruised light. The kind of light that never stays long enough to become love, leaving shadows to ration the day’s last light. The sun keeps rising and setting faster than we can make out what we made of each other. Look at anyone long enough, and one of you is bound to become translucent with the desire to be touched by softer light. I know my shadows are heavy and my letters even heavier, but it’s okay; just let it all pass through you like moonlight through a curtain.
The light of a dying star moves much faster than it’s sound, which is probably why I saw the boy before I heard him speak in my voice. The boy clutching his stomach, bleeding light onto my sidewalk. His legs fade, and he joins his shadow on the ground—the same shadow he and I share. How fast is your fractured glow, candlelight heart made of pure wax waning into a river of gold. I know you hate my meandering, but this is the only way we'll find where the boy’s blood light flowed—thick, luminous liquid love draining slow.
He was not alone, no one ever is in the right light. His friends move in closer, as if the bleeding boy were a bonfire.
hold him
hug him tight
he might go out if you don’t
why I could not stop burning
every time I got too close to you
to see the hope tomorrow’s hands hold
you call this light pollution
streetlights snuffing out stars
supernova boy born burning himself into a black hole
no one knows where shooting stars go
It’s okay. We don’t need to know what we are right now or whether we even are. Too fickle and flammable to be this real. They might call our ash stardust. None of it matters when we're this luminous. Here one second gone the next, beautiful only because we don't last. I know I promised to stop talking like this, but I keep looking for light switches on lonely nights, only to find your name lodged in my shadows
lighting up my world like sun, like hug, like liquid love, warm tea. I’m teetering on calling every moment with you religious. God don’t make mistakes, and when he does, he makes sure to pair them so their shadow might form something like love, something lovable. Hold this letter up to the nearest light, and you will see every word is true. Translucent does not mean see through; I am real enough to touch. Most hands have held more water than light; what does that say about our desire for the impossible? See through me like you do; touch only the pools of sacred dark. This is the hallmark of true light / love—how much of ourselves we get to leave behind in others. A shadow has always been a truer reflection.
That’s why the world is kinder and quieter this time of night. Can you hear it too? Can you hear me? I am talking to you through much more than these words can hold. Our mother tongue too stunted, too painful, too tainted by yesteryear's shadows, so we climb into this foreign language to find each other. Can you see me? A pen, a pink / black journal, worlds, words, worlds of words, paper, paper, more paper. How many trees does it take for a teacher to reach a poet? A whole forest where no tree ever had to burn out of the desire to be seen. There are so many more worlds in this one; you need only to look, write, and read to find them / me.
I’m sorry I keep writing these in blood-bright ink, light polluting these pages; this city’s darkness too sacred, holy shadows made real by fear of a love like ours. Anyway, if you made it this far, if your light has lasted this long, please share some with me. I am almost bled dry.
Love,
J