I’ve asked the stars for nothing.
Their deaths are bright enough.
Not for warmth but wonder.
The duende that keeps us searching
the skies. Forever, for answers that
outlast us. Until we too, become
bright enough. And we too, perpetuate.
We become wonder too. And we title
it: life. Not survival. Life. Because we
bloom, we create, we combust. To
illuminate the ones we love. The ones
that drive our fusion. The ones that
become our debts. The ones that mourn
our belonging. Our metamorphosis from
light to dark.
And as our deaths take up space. And
our ashes settle into pervious Earth.
She accepts us. And keeps us and
our pieces. Pieces that find themselves
crowded, intermixed, weaved within the
mud of humanity.
And we are okay. We are okay with that.
Because when everyone is dirt and
all the color washes out,
is hurt ever chosen?
So my love, look up.
Find yourself in the mire between the
pinpricks. Find yourself in the brilliance
gathered within black veil.
You are right where you need