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In his emotion, washed away the 
lies that held him to this world.
In his fury, grew the love he kept 
for her. For this love grew under 
the tree he wished to take her to,
in the field he watched for hours 
on a Sunday afternoon.

In his blindness came his truth, 
and in this truth gave birth to his 
clarity. When all ran amok in his 
twisted head, when all the 
little gremlins came and went, 
leaving only but a trace of sanity
behind, only then did he truly 
understand what it meant to be chained
to an unstoppable force, headed towards
an immovable object. 

Only then did he realize how much 
she was better than he could ever 
imagine. For she said no words to him, 
nor has he said words to her. 

Only then did he realize that her 
smile was a bomb, and he was the 
decimated field. She was fire, and 
he was burnt. 

She was a galaxy and he was a rock, 
floating in the distance, in the vast distance.
His thoughts were unfathomable stars, 
built upon immense constellations hidden 
within the larger scheme of things. 

He felt that no amount of  terror or fear 
could rip him back into reality, and that 
no amount of help could sober him up 
from the truth. 

He danced with her, and she danced 
with his demons. She enveloped his 
thoughts, and he could not disagree 
with it. She was this thing that he couldn’t 
understand. Whether she liked it or not, 
she was art. And he would go to sleep 
believing that he could one day understand art.


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