Luminous Nocturne
When the last cathedral candle gutters out—
a hallelujah dying on its knees—
I will ignite myself instead,
become a human firework of verse,
disintegrate in phosphorescent phrases
that spell your name across the dark matter
where gods forgot to pay their light bills.
Become a human firework of verse:
this is my final thesis statement,
Crimson-spattered syllables
written in lighter fluid
on the walls of this prison cell universe—
the warden called it "inappropriate expression"
so I swallowed the key and tattooed
instructions for escape on my trachea.
Disintegrate in phosphorescent phrases:
watch me atomize into alphabets,
split infinitives like atoms,
ignite syntax wildfires
that burn down the dictionary's
white picket fences.
I was never good at playing dead
inside language's coffin-box,
so I'm performing linguistic necrophilia
on proper grammar's corpse,
reanimating zombie nouns
to devour the living verbs.
That spell your name across the dark matter:
you—existential address unknown,
cosmic addressee of all my unsendable letters,
black hole love interest who swallows
every metaphor I throw into your event horizon.
I've been writing you into being
since before the Big Bang learned to stutter
"I-I-I exist,"
penning love poems in quark-guark ink
on the inside skin of singularities.
Where gods forgot to pay their light bills:
the interviewers always ask
"who's your muse?"
as if inspiration comes
with a subscription model,
as if I don't steal electricity
from abandoned monasteries
to power these midnight typing sessions,
as if I haven't been shoplifting
divine sparks from the same
corner store deity
who sold humanity original sin
at a two-for-one discount.
So when the last cathedral candle gutters out—
don't bother sending flowers.
I'll be busy conducting
this pyrotechnic requiem
for illumination itself,
arranging funeral pyre
matches into candelabras
that burn backwards
toward the moment
when darkness first
learned to write its name
in the ashes
of a borrowed
flame.