Notes

there are many theories as to how we came to be
(i’m not sure which one i believe).

did we appear as dually flickering lights
above a hazy skyline?
fluttering, distant,
choking on stifling fog:
first solitary decades of life
as a lukewarm utterance into the vacuum,
whispering, “oh, what is this emptiness?”
haggard gesturing suggesting
half is not missing, but whole

and someday, when beacons collide,
not coincidence, but prophecy,
wrenching claims of meant-to-be
the sparks erupt in ultraviolet chaos,
volcanic, raging,
a mighty wallop of colour and sound,
a shattering cry of belonging
splitting time itself.

i don’t think so.
i don’t think i was born to love anyone
except myself, and even that,
some days, i’m not sure is true.

i don’t think our initials are carved
into anything immortal,
let alone battered into the very cosmos;
the air didn't lock into place upon our arrival,
awaiting the moment our silhouettes
would one day fill the empty space.

i could fall in love with a melody,
let crawl through my body
(or a train ride, or alabaster sheets;
there are chemicals that do these things to me),
i could grow fond of many things
but how particular my fondness of you

how fervent, how violent, how gentle

i think we're just moths
riding on the backs of giants
and i wasn't drawn to you
because our wings are both blue
but because they're the same colour
as everyone else’s
and you were willing to listen to
why that scared me

we’re not star-crossed
but we can still wrap ourselves in the seams
of a quilted universe that we did not stitch;
bathe in the glow of a sun
that does not shine for us;
run atop an earth that
does not feel our hurried footsteps
as they thump,
thump
thump

how lucky we are
to have nothing expected of us.
quickly—all the time we will ever know
is tapping her toes on the doorstep
and i do not want to keep her waiting