Too Intense

This one was written during a stormy spring night. While out searching for my soul or whatever is the word to describe this thing that tie us to life despite its crazy turns and enduring pains. Photos from said night.

I tell him about the world’s wildest stories;

The women who came from black holes,

The children who string the galaxies together,

The flowers that dare to blossom inside ice.

You’re too intense,

he says, walking away.

I tell him about colors

that shine only in the dark,

Planets where form is fluid,

Of stardust - from when our souls aligned before existence

You’re too intense,

he says again, his back already turning.

I show him the dark -

and then bring him the light.

I carry him on celestial wings

through the music of the universe,

to where time first inhaled,

and we became.

You’re too intense. Let’s talk about the birds.

So I take him to the valley of unsung birds,

We ride the backs of hummingbirds - the mightiest among the small.

To where silence is a sacred instrument.

I string pain knot by knot

and compose it into a trembling note.

He sighs—“You’re too intense.”

And so I fold back in.

Return to the place where stars are born.

Where love doesn’t flinch

at the shape of my fire.

I sit with my galaxies,

let them spill over my skin -

braiding Saturn’s rings into my hair,

threading supernovas through my spine.

My voice becomes a planet,

my longing, a constellation.

They could not hold me

because I was never meant to be held -

but worshipped,

like the wind worships the sea.

Let them call it intensity.

I call it origin.

I call it home