The Miracle in Slow Motion
The Miracle in Slow Motion
If I had been a poet, beloved, with fingers of light upon your face—
sixteen hours watching how you sleep, how the universe breathes slowly within you,
and your tresses fall like cascades of time frozen in crystal,
living metaphors on your white skin, like runes written in dreams by gods.
My hand floats psychedelic over the vault of your sleeping face,
adjusting comet tails caught in your hair, so I can see the miracle more clearly—
you, unreal being in reality, you, proof that magic exists in the world,
you, my melancholic sunrise, the small arc of dawn that tears my chest apart.
How I would have run through hallucinating crowds, suffocated by desire,
only because your eyes were waiting for me somewhere in our suspended house—
that abstract house where everything disappears into your tired shoulders,
where the entire world melts like wax beneath your gentle flame.
I would have kissed your forehead like a cosmic altar, without words spoken—
the highest bridge I can cross toward you, my stellar beloved,
and in the kitchen, cutting banal onions, you become liquid legend,
my tears are not for the onion, but for the happiness that drowns me.
I have forgotten what fighting means, shouting, the sharp and ancient pain—
you have erased from my neurons every vocabulary of evil and fear,
leaving me only with one language: your love as perpetual flux,
the only truth I know, the only madness that makes me whole.
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