There are many theories as to how we came to be I’m not sure which one I believe. Did we appear as dually flickering lights above the hazy skyline— fluttering, distant, choking on a stifling fog First, solitary decades of life as a lukewarm utterance whispering, “Oh what is this emptiness?” Hybrid gesturing suggesting half isn’t missing, but whole. But someday, when beacons collide, not coincidence but prophecy, wrenching claims of meant to be The sparks erupt, in ultraviolet chaos—volcanic, raging, a mighty wallop of color and sound, a shattering cry of belonging splitting time itself. I don’t think so. I don’t think I was born to love anyone except myself, but even that, some days, I’m not sure is true. I don’t think our initials are carved into anything immortal. Let alone battered into the very cosmos The air didn’t—lock into place upon out arrival, awaiting the moment our silhouettes would one day fill the empty space I
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