I AM NIGHT and dusk is never ending.
Probe the dark and prove my worth. Step blind into oblivion, summon demons in shadow forms on the cracked walls and windowsills, and every creaking floorboard flies a phantom, taunting.
When I go, will some part of me remain, or will the memory of my feet, my sweat and fingerprints not linger like the dust that plagues this house, the grime that climbs wallpaper like trumpet vines suckering freely through a garden?
What purpose do I have, then, if not to leave a mark? If my legacy is naught, then that is all I am. That should be a question, but somehow, it isn’t.
And then, some part of me wonders still, wandering in cosmic loopholes, stumbling over the fault lines of consciousness and purpose, finding no solace in books and theories of mortal men, no resounding truth to assuage my seething doubt.
When the azalea blooms, does it ask for a purpose? Does it wonder who placed the stars? Does it think anything at all?
Surely, that much is true. I’ve never identified much with the solipsists, but I think they’ve staggered onto safer ground than most.
Night offers no remorse, and dreams do little to stay my mind, eager for answers.
And then, there you are.
If my life is a song, you are my call-and-response. The widowed faith cowering inside me dies happy, knowing you are near, and for the time being that’s all I’ll ever need: your face, your lips, your hands, your touch, ever nearer to send your warmth through me like a drill through a drifting iceberg.
If clouds could sing, they would revel in ballads at your beauty. I try to find the words, but every lyric is poisoned by my inadequate tongue, for none can suffer or suffice the peaceful glow in your cheeks, like hay in the wind they break and fall away, fragile against the stone that is your soul, feeble as my barren dreams. In a million lifetimes on a million other worlds I could never dream a more splendid dream than you.
In loving arms you keep me safe, wrapped warm in nurture, tangled in a bliss that should never end, but must. I know it must.
It will end, one day, with you or me the first to go.
Pray it is me, for this world has not fathomed darkness til it sees me lumber at your grave, bitter in the way that a black hole seeks vengeance for the follies of life, drawing breath and light from every room like some aphotic whirl. I am torchless love lay barren, then. Watch me fold and crack like dry timothy, cinder and smoke the world free of all the smiling, singing joy that isn’t you.
Stay with me, love. Keep me to my final breath, or pity the world you leave in your wake. Pity them to suffer me alone.
You are my softness, my only light. My strength. Marvel at the tree of lightning as it arcs across the stars, pierce purple and staining vision long after it fades to night. Our love comes and goes as quick, true; may it shine long in your eyes after I leave this place. Men and cities will crumble, should you fall before me. Mark my words.
Forgive me, my love. Forgive my hollow fury, and stay the beast with life. Kiss me once and I’ll return to infancy; touch me and watch the stars come forth. I’ll shimmer if you ask it. I’ll dance if it pleases you.
Say the word, darling.
I am yours, forever.
Until light and dark have no meaning, I’ll love you.