Prose

XXVII

I used to call you beautiful. I used to spend every waking moment pondering your beauty. You were stunning. You were radiant. You gave off a light that drew me in like a moth to a flame.

I got burned.

But no, no that is not the point. The point is, you are not beautiful. You are not stunning. You are not radiant. You are the universe, a billion stars and a billion skies. You are an expanse of perfection and I cannot understand you. You are not beautiful. You are complex. And that, that is what drew me in.

You have pulled down skies and held fire in the palm of your hand. The clouds draw out your name in hues of red and black like blood and dirt. The winds scream in voices that sound like you. And there is nothing beautiful about you.

But you are, my love, you are the world. You are not the sun, held in all of its beauty. You are not the light kissed moon, no. You are not the inky sky hanging above, you are not. But you, my love, are the sunset.

You are between all things beautiful. You are the horizon, streaked with hatred and pain and darkness and sadness. And that is not beautiful. That is dark and dangerous and, God, you are all I've wanted. You burn down worlds and break the earth and crack the skies and set fire to the water and you have mesmerized the deepest parts of me.

Never, ever will you settle for beautiful again. Never will you settle for pretty. Never will you settle for perfect. Never will you settle for stunning or radiant. You are fire. You are destruction. You are terrifying and brilliant and you do not shine, you suck the light from the lightest parts of the world. You are a demise fit for a queen.

Oh, wait.

April 25, 2014 2:47am