The Fallacy of Stars (Poem)

Wandered into the city seeking stars and bold constellations,

under the fog of titian and violet light,

that stained concrete and stone,

our faces,

our fingers,

these delicate bodies,

with heart shaped bruises.

Like watercolor strokes in the same lattice pattern as those city streets we haunted,

wraiths who held hands,

in empty alleyways,

and parking lots,

and up and down a familiar stretch of highway,

when the sun was always sleeping,

and we followed the long line of lights along Lake Shore Drive,

like they led to our salvation.

And perhaps each and every streetlamp was a star that the moon had mercifully released,

to tumble down out of the night,

like an answer to a prayer we raised up like penitent revival believers.

And when the sun rose that morning you held my hand at the altar of Artemis,

as we beseeched the sister,

because she is at the thresholds that cradle the passing day.

And we needed those twilights,

those merciful segues.

And when we hunted the night,

and our bodies leaned into the moon,

we glowed with the type of light that radiated with energy in the Stygian black.

In this way we assured ourselves,

in the flux,

the in between,

the violet hue from dawn to sunrise,

and dusk to sunset.

A cooling,

where we might rest a moment,

after our wasted muscles had learned how to fly.

For we poured,

streamed,

spilled,

danced with Orion,

and spoke Milky Way across the firmament of night.

And like stars we shone.

Like the stars,

we told ourselves,

that the moon sent,

down, just for us.

A parade of light along a highway where the sun never rose,

and we sang out the lyrics to joyful songs,

even as our hearts beat a dirge,

a bass line,

to which we could dance,

and did.

And aware and willing,

we took the soft light,

and hoped Hades would not seek to punish the souls that paid Charon in fool's gold.

And we gently resolved ourselves to be like the lover that says "I love you," without thought of it being said in return.

Like Hera,

like Hephaestus,

we bowed and accepted there will always be an inside joke,

told by the Gods,

because it was fool's errand to love with no thought if its cost.

And so we were fools,

stepping up,

like a soldier,

to volunteer,

to be the bittersweet punchline.

That sadness,

rancorous nostalgia,

seething memory lingering too long in newfound laughter.

But we danced with joy and bells on our shoes.

Tears stinging what we named happiness onto pink cheeks.

Fuck gods,

and half gods,

and all of you who never dared to metamorphose into cascading stars.

Because sometimes falling,

we told ourselves, was something akin to flight.

Icarus too, knew this.

bvk, 2018.