No Great Illusion: Looking, by Shinji Moon

commovente:

Looking, 

There is my white feather. Your pink
moon. The way we coin the word beautiful with things

as small and misty as light /   as transient
/ as fog. We love

solely the things that slip through us. 

   Men. Chlorophyll. Meltings. All that
                        stops at our skin and makes us beg for it to go further. 

Driving home from Bard, we talked about how our little brown
eyes saw things in a different light, as if the world were a place where
romantics could live, and in our

privacy we called each other artists, even though 
I no longer know how to paint, no longer know anything but my
words, even though you are the one
who collects rainfall from beautiful places to send to the boy
you love. Because

         we were driving home with Radiohead playing
in the speakers and we were talking about the world as if the world could never hurt us, 

      and if it did, how we would love it anyway. And in quieter
and quieter voices, we talked about how we almost loved our sadness, how

       our ghosts were warm when we touched them, how 
       we could turn even our darkness into light when we moved
       ourselves over, just slightly — over towards

                          love, over towards the bulb, over towards
                 the windowsill in the morning — petals pushing out
                from our fingertips, our bodies making the world out as if we
     were wildflowers collected by the hands of a small gap-toothed
child, as if we weren’t roses but dandelions, as if we could float away
with a louder breeze.