The Illusion of Light

He carries the weight of wonder,

collecting fragments of light—

a glance, a laugh,

the brush of a hand against his own.

Each moment he touches

feels infinite,

the kind of beauty

he believes will save him.

He lingers in the firsts:

the first smile,

the first kiss,

the first time her name lands softly in his mind

like a promise he can almost keep.

Every moment is a canvas,

and he paints with the colors of fire

and sky,

never noticing the ground beneath his feet.

But then, the stillness comes.

The light shifts,

and in its stead,

she is there—simply there.

Her hair falls loose as she leans against the window,

her bare feet pressing into the floor.

Her eyes catch the fading sun,

not to dazzle him,

but because they always have.

He watches her like a man

staring at a language he cannot read.

Her voice no longer carries mystery,

only the gentle weight of knowing.

She reaches for his hand—

and it feels

like gravity, not flight.

He smiles across the room,

but something in him tightens.

Her laughter, soft and unworried,

doesn’t echo the way he imagined.

It settles instead,

like rain soaking into the earth,

too quiet to grasp,

too steady to chase.

She sits beside him,

her body close,

her presence simple and unadorned.

And in her stillness,

he sees all the parts of her

he doesn’t know how to hold.

His gaze drifts beyond her,

to where the light lingers

on the horizon’s edge.

Already, he feels himself moving toward it,

searching for the shimmer,

the glow,

the next fleeting moment

that won’t ask him to stay.

CC- December 2024