I see you.
(Even when I don’t know where you are.)
Even when the world doesn’t. Even when the world chooses not to.
And you, you only see the shadows that the earth shrouds you in;
you don’t see your own luminescence.
I have seen all the different ways that rainbows paint the sky:
after the heavens weep, they are the smiles;
the splashes of colors over the monochrome of the clouds;
hues that freeze, that burn, that die.
People behold them with vivid admiration, singing praises of its
beauty, writing verses out of love. There is always no mention
of the other half—the half they never see,
the half they know is just as beautiful as the colors
suspended in a graceful arc across the endless skies.
They speak of legends and pots of gold, as if
the beginning of your existence is the end of something magical.
Why did you believe them?
You believed that you never burn,
that you’re already dead even long before the colors fade;
how unfair the world must be, you’ve never had a place—
but you do, that I am sure.
In the darkness, after the storm, whenever you are not seen,
you are part of something wondrous,
you, yourself, are wondrous,
You are significant,
you matter: on the surface of the earth
or in the depths of the sea—
the sky is not the only place to be.
Tell me your secrets;
where you disappear to.
(And I hope I can go with you.)
I see you.