The moon is not a symbol of love, the scientists say. It’s just a rock floating mindlessly in the space, orbiting the earth as loyal as it has been for aeons. Why can’t I see it as how poets see it? An eternal metaphor of love. Beautiful, isn’t it? A moon radiates the sky, and I appreciate its albedo, enough luminance for me to watch your countenance and fall more and more deeply in love with you. I wish upon a shooting star. I can make myself believe that I am transporting my wishes to place where dreams are valued, judged, processed. And why not I believe it? A novel idea, if not absurd; a child-like dream, but the universe is large, at some point you think there’ll be this Einstein-Rosen bridge to another dimension.
I can’t translate myself. Your voice is an atlas, and I will travel millions of light-years away when I hear it. My eardrum rings with your voice. It reverbs and resonates as loud as a bell during midnight. It hurts, but the sound longs to be listened, and I do that. I used to try distancing myself, crossing nautical miles of the seas, going high above the atmosphere, trying to get away from the slightest noise that comes out of your mouth, but in the end, the earth is not that large of a planet. This land’s end is just a short walk away from the beginning. You are still here, I am still there. Your shadow touches this place as the sun sits on a degree that signifies the late afternoon.
In a way, I am like someone waiting to be dissected, a surgery of sorts. My diagnosis is you. My disease is you. No medicine, no way to heal. Deep inside, I always want to exhale you out of my lungs, erase you out of my brain, and cut you so I have a heart that is whole again. I should not give you a room in it, it’s too small but you occupy a space too large. If you could just see the chambers of my heart, if you could see that my feeling travels throughout this body, along the veins, along the arteries, carried by my blood.
The sun still sets now and every day.