You say that you are the rock
And you dare not ask me
To be your eternal bearer up the mountain,
That you are a burden
Meant to be left behind.
You tell me you are the moss,
That you cannot be the cactus I once claimed,
And I should let you roll on
Alone.
But don't you know who you are?
Who we are?
You are more than rock,
You are stardust, realized.
We are the exploding, near-eternal fires that light the night
And paint the sky
We are constellations chasing head over tail
Around this globe
Always a horizon line out of reach.
You are the flames of summer,
Offspring to Prometheus,
The King of Wands,
Sacrificing your lungs in an ancient ritual
Of flames that bear your name.
We are born from fire
Our very strength forged in the pyre.
You are no succulent,
Though your heart may masquerade as one sometimes.
You are stealing after the sun,
The first sign of life in a rocky wasteland,
You come with the lichen,
And you cling to existence like a cliff edge.
Allowed to thrive,
You are soft and yielding,
Laying yourself down for the comfort of others.
Seemingly simple, but within,
You turn the very stone into life.
A curse and burden, you are not.
You are the rightful heir of fire
To stars that sing your name.
You may seem to drown in the wasteland,
Surrounded by endless void
But, love, don't you know what those lungs can do?
Breathing life into stone,
Come alive.
Someday, maybe at 35 (or 25),
You may no longer need Sisyphus.
What then?
A love poem, sort of? For you.