she saw what he was made of
beyond flesh and bone —
surface layers
peeled back, raw
when all he saw in a
tainted reflection
all that which he wasn’t and
what he believed, he could never be;
she saw the same source energy that
drives bees to create honey;
she saw the same power that
personally pulls an
ever-glowing sun to its
rise and fall
each dawn and
each dusk;
it was him —
he was the sunset and
he was the sunrise
it encompassed him, all
and he was a budding flower that bloomed
when winter warmed into spring;
each note in his voice,
whenever he spoke
carried the same tune as
a hummingbird’s song —
she could listen to him sing
all day and
all night long
sweet, gentle melodies
written uniquely for her
individual ears
acutely tuned to only be
serenaded by his frequency;
whisper words of love —
ones that make
all darkness disappear
//
and he was darkness, too
only, in a way he
would never be able to see,
within a body he carried with
insecurity and shame —
but she saw none of that
for, he was the vastness of space
no, he was the universe
residing in his very cells —
stardust
a sprinkling of each
glowing orb on a
pitch black summer night;
when observing with her
watchful eyes
it was ever-so obvious
contained within him
a blaze with which
Helios, himself,
could never compete;
extra-ordinary, indeed
from some place
distant and
unreachable —
from the furthest away of
even the most
unknown galaxy
//
she only wished he could
see himself through this
shared lens
if only she could say:
when you think of beauty —
seasonal changes
petals of all arrays and
the sun shining on a
blistering summer’s day and
shades of leaves on
autumnal trees and
snowflakes resembling
powdered-sugar on a
cold winter’s eve and
an arched bow in a
cloud-clearing sky and
the way glowing rays fall
through an over-grown,
abundant forest of green and
the beauty you see
when you lovingly look at me;
of all this, you came to be
and even though you may not agree,
it is there,
and that is one thing of which,
to you,
I guarantee.
About the Creator
Skylar Whitney
Introvert at heart. Lover of journaling, free-verse poetry, and poutine.
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