poetry for the poetic: 5

CXXXII

there is moonlight upended into him, silver shine to his hair and to his skin and to every slow beat of his heart. there is starlight in his veins, there is sunlight in his easy smile - he shines, he shines, he shines.

there is an open book on your desk, dust swirling in the stagnant air as you steady yourself on the too-big chair and lean forward, drinking in the ink on the pages. your eyes are intent, and your hands flip page after page after page. there is a name scrawled on the back of the front cover, and it is not yours. you look away, staring into space, and the silence hangs heavy in the air. something digs deep into your chest and aches.

there is a comet that passes the earth every 75 years, and you wonder how it feels to glide through that infinite emptiness, impossibly cold, impossibly small, and you wonder how it feels to see the earth again for those fleeting moments, a glimpse of life in the void. you think you know.

there is a boy. there is a child hiding behind layers upon layers of fog and disappointment, lost in a hall of mirrors. you stare at him, and each of his infinite reflections stare back at you. you turn because you cannot meet his eyes, his hopes, his expectations, and when you look back, he is gone.

you are not enough. you will never be enough.

there are crowds and there is his face in every stranger. there are infinite reflections and infinite mirrors, and the night sky provides no solace. you think you see a flash of light across the sky, but you blink and it is gone.