Her Voice as Lightning Tamed by Silk

I wrote in a love interest today. She thought she was a moth but she was a butterfly with wings of majestic iridescence and beauty.

She didn't see me, though. She saw right through me, past my heart and beyond, and she knew better. I knew better. Everyone always knows better.

I don't care about better. To live is to be in the moment, to hope, to love, to feel beauty, even in the midst of despair. Everyone always knows better. Everyone always sees reality.

I hate it.

But I don't want to be a false light in the dark. I wish I could wish it away, awry, anew, and not be anything to you. To leave you alone, let you be, but I don't understand that part of me.

The part that every day I look at people and wish I could tell them they're beautiful, because they are. And have them know that in the depth of their soul nothing else matters except that light in themselves. That they sometimes can't see, but still shines like a lantern for others.

And that one person I want to hold and say "If you knew it, you could light the world with your smile, like you light my world."

But I don't know her. I don't want to be a false light in the dark. I want to be the sun that never burns her, just holds her in my heart.