It is true that even truth is conditional. It does not matter what harsh razor lips say to me or what songs the quiet soldiers sing to themselves. Because no one can see in black and white, because lies are knives that slice unseen through the strongest, brightest petals; because nothing can be known, but rather can only be believed, at best.
In that cruel saintly June all I’d hoped was to be believed.
Since birth, since before even I have been a child of whispering rainbows. Sometimes I believe that I see more colors than other eyes; I know like I know nothing that there are no other eyes like mine.
One cannot imagine how much meaning I’ve poured and pressed and doodled into every pane of milky bright glass in that window. Like some other windows I’ve known, this one has eyes. When I cry I know the tears fill up too in the glassy, crystalline blues, when I bleed I’m sure the drops find their way to color in the warm vermilions. The glowy greens are my Wide Open Spaces, my Canaan. The ivories are the creamiest words she’s ever spoken. The iron outlines are the absolutes I’ve scrawled and crossed through many a time and many a time again and again.
Soon, they’ll break. I wonder, how long…