If it’s said aloud enough, then maybe it’ll be true. Love you. Love you more. Love you most. The repeated assertion that you’re the sun around which orbit is necessity for being. The light of you breeds possibility, even in this world of reigning confusion, where clouds billow tall in once perfect skies and shed tears of regret to feed the bloom of wisdom; oh it’s pain. It’s the latest tattoo on thinnest skin stretched taut across bone. A foot, a rib, a shoulder blade. It’s the trial of being marked by permanent commitment. And you are the dried ink justice of these most cherished successes. Or are you? Is it you that sits at the front of each choice as is told in the countless fables before night swallows this busy mind? If that were truth, then would each day be entropic origami folded into itself? Would lust swim so deep in these choked veins, threatening to burst with yearning for more, better, different? No one is a moonlit night in the middle of summer over the still waters of a quiet lake. No one is that freedom to plummet, swim, stroke, hold, and breathe in naked surety. And maybe nightswimmer love is impossible, yet each decision played gambles the ever increasing ante of your future. It has to stop. The selflessness hinting at corners and plaintive claims require action, as this fumbling is Coptic spoken to the deaf ears of now. No one is listening but this cracking heart and your young one which looks this way and to the sun for guidance. May each guide you to new discovery safely. May each dispell the long shadows of a failing self.
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