You are divinity in the softness, femininity in the rage. You are a dagger, a beautiful handle sculpted from precious gemstones with a blade so sharp it can part galaxies. To be you is to have an urge. A sacred inclination. To yearn for the sunrise and never make it out of bed, to set timers and ignore when they ring. To be so easily consumed by the simplicity of the world that your passion overpowers you shamelessly, and you are nothing but a manifestation of the most beautiful things imaginable.
You are butterflies feeding on fresh daffodils. Your wings paint the sky with watercolors and flecks of white paint to transform you into iridescence. You are handspun lace and ribbon, with August tinted cheeks. Your fragrance is suspended between mesquite honey and sugary jasmine.
You are magical fairy dusted silver linings. Powdered sugar coated wings that coat the world as they soar. Soft hands which are designed to be held fast and with ease. Maps of heaven. Tiffany stained glass windows into the soul, with pupils darker and more destructive than black holes. Your tongue is the key to the universe. The secrets of time are kept within the confines of consciousness. There is an allure to you which is undeniable and inexplicable.
You have an incomparable impulse. You listen to the heart over the mind in matters which could tear you apart. You fall in love with people who don’t exist, and bury yourself in the warmth of an idealized version of those around you. You have eternal hope. There is sunshine about you. You trust in those you love even when they don’t deserve it. You give second chances. Third chances, if the stars were aligned differently when you graced the world.
You are delicate, complex, daisy-dotted grassy knolls of existence. You are waves with stunning surfers gliding down you in neon. You are a botanical being who blooms as well in the dark as you do when shrouded in light. You are reruns past midnight, with eyebags, glossy lips, and chipped fingernails, toying with the rubbery buttons on the remote. You are epiphanies and sudden bursts of inspiration to write things much like that of which I’ve written now.
Libraries of romance and mystery. Classical adoration and contemporary devotion. The tiniest details of renaissance paintings. Pearlescent and bright, opulent and dark. There is a glow to you, a glow which manifests itself so intensely that it blinds those who cannot grasp your power. You are celestial. The product of constellations and myths. You melted Icarus’ wings, you brought Selene back to earth.
You are rose tinted glasses, and freshly washed hair. You are the bindings on the spine of Jane Austen books. You are what Bukowski feared and Babitz adored. You are a being of biblical proportion. You are worth worshiping. You are revered. You are venerated.
An essay written on December 26, 2021