All that I Can See

I can see a dimly rainbow-lit bridge.

I can see us, wearing yesterday.

I can see a middle-aged architecture alley, with gargoyles staring at us.

I can see the whole place wondering aloft a cloud, right next to me.

I can see a bench, two lovers, and a blinding light that I mistake for the sun.

I can see her wearing an outstretched night sky, a black silk dress. Her hair is strewn all over the sky today, filled with clouds.

I can see galaxies exploding in her eyes.

I can see stars collapsing, others being reborn, deep down in her eyes.

I can see her lips, and mistake them for that fine line separating the sky and the ocean. Once they part, she swallow in every drop.

I can see valleys covered in ice, with a raging fire underneath.

I can see the shadow of the universe, trapped in her eyelids, hymning our story.

I can see the moon in one hand, the sun in the other, and when she move, she’s the darkness and light.

I can hear a pounding heart, giving rhythm to reality, while pumping rivers of fantasies into my own veins.

That’s what I can see today, and it feels like I haven’t seen anything yet.