We are the evening, you and I.
Both painted in our sunday blacks
as mourning breaks upon us.
You are the vast, intense expanse
of a taurine sky dribbling crystals
that hang on invisible threads
from the deep blue smile of the galaxy.
You are those dead, iron-eating stars,
refracting beauty through dead air,
and blurring the edges until
no one can tell where beauty starts
and the spaces inbetween begin,
people gaze at you and forget -
forget - forget how empty spaces are.
You are layer upon layer of small lights
that combine to prick holes
in the darkness that keeps them awake.
That’s what you are, you are
the atmosphere and far beyond.
The bow of a universe wrapped tight
around the world, to hold it together.
I am a dark black lake gripping its shores
too tightly, and flooding them often.
I am a bottomless hole overfilled,
overwhelmed, unable to get over you,
but as I swill and slurry - as I stew -
as I remember contributing to something,
being a drop in the ocean, once -
as I remember feeling normal, safe, sane
I am still a dark and bottomless lake
overwhelmed and unable to get over
your image projected onto my unstable face
saturating all I am with inescapable light.
We are the evening, you and I -
you are the ink of an evening being written
and I the bleak smudge of a day poorly wrote.