Art from Moonshye’s 2021 album Curtain of the Moon, shot by Dominika Strobel (I believe).

If there is a space for the immensity of the beauty of the Earth to be stored in a thoughtful ape, it would be in language.

In language I am surprised to think of a sensible atom of a feeling to be a tree which branches caress the clouds

And I find in you the most beautiful language.

If there is a place where the prettiest fruits of the observational Earth could be picked as if they were all on the ground waiting to be grasped, it was in your words.

You sound like you don’t end, baby.

That in every word of yours there is a corner in you where I can find an entire bookshelf of your existence.

You sound like you are tired to be, and rightfully so, because you are so much.

In every exchange I try to dig deeper on your self

I create these tunnels inside your mind and I’m always worried because you speak from a place of the utmost delicacy

And I’m worried that if I dig too deep, I may break or damage what I think is the glass that decorates the walls of your mind.

But these worries are of a shallow man, a breakable one.

You are not made of glass to be broken, nor you are made of sand to be easily dug

You are not made of fire to be controlled, you are not made of water to be consumed

But maybe you are made of the Sun; this warmth from far away. A presence that gives life by just being, a reason for the trees to look prettier. Something that shrouds all good feelings and all that is to be seen and all that is to be loved.

But then, if you are necessary like the Sun, maybe you are made of water, after all; Your body is shaped by the bowl it resides in, and yours is shaped by wherever my dreams are kept in my head. You have a flow that is delicate, but you are deadly. But you are simple. But you are in everything.

But maybe you are made of the earth. You are not to be made of dreams; you are a strong place. You are made of the pieces of every brute and marvelous stone that has been there for however long, translating in your existence a lovely place to rest above; a lovely place I would, also, love to rest under, even if only in my dying days.

But you are not a canvas. You are not the next words I write, you are not to be mistaken by a definition of the salvation that rests in the minds of a lost one.

No, you are not a puzzle piece, however complete you may be. You are not a melody, even if the words that follow it sound close to your heart.

You are language itself, and it’s silly to think words could ever describe themselves. I could never describe how I feel knowing you exist; the grace of the love and the horror of thinking it was best to not have known, just so I could live not knowing that someone could be you. These last words can’t do their work right, they’re useless.

But maybe you are not to be found outside and summarized by nature. Maybe you can only be found in the breaches of a poem, for nature could never conjure up the words to define you. But would language do? Could you be found here, hiding somewhere in these words?

The truth is I can’t find you outside. I can’t find you in these words, either.

The only place I can find you now is in my dreams, and there you’ll be: to die every day and to kill me every night.

About this text: This one I wish it was more faceless, but it’s still a meditation on the themes I seem to love to talk about in here. Language, love… I don’t feel interested on having a muse anymore, so that’s a big theme on here as well. I like to speak from this place of extraterrestrial feelings, trying to connect with broken language through a broken transmitter to a broken population who doesn’t speak how I speak. The title intentionally doesn’t make sense (pun intended), but if you want to comment about it below I will be happy because it helps to boost the poem!