when I was twelve, my sister whispered in my ear in a stuffy August church service.
"you'll know when they come along", she said, "fireflies will flicker behind your weary eyes."
that never prepared me for you.

you weren't a flicker. you taught me to see nothing but light. you taught me that no matter how quickly the flames transition to embers, the embers still burn the brightest. when the electricity went out, you were there to light the candles. and when the wicks burnt down, and there were no more matches to light, you didn't abandon me in the darkness. instead, you showed me the sun.

nothing, not even the sun, could ever radiate light any brighter than your eyes. nothing is comparable to the laugh that sets my stomach on fire. the sadness burns my throat, but you make the stars shine, and I swear to god I speak of you like you put them in the sky.