I want to part these lips for light. He chooses to open his mouth, though the blank pages remain. Whether I or him, whether the world full of silhouettes and sighs or the singular man who kneels here will want to breathe for what means to go, it goes without accepting.
Short of time, and his heart bleeds. Here, he is kneeling to be the last witness for a sight. Of a burning winter, a fever that has spread across his son’s pallid face and form. This father kneels, though not to pray. He kneels to beg. He holds not the faith in his heart that his son will last, though he holds himself to the light. Still, the blank pages remain. No story can be drawn nor written on a timeline of shadows, while he cries these words to the open from where he opened himself, “I am undone. My son. My son is in ruins. His eyes do not see me. His stare already follows the next world, over,” and upon the exact moment he takes his son’s hand in his own, he erupts forth with visible tension, “Let him live! Oh, something let him live.”
The fever crawls, though the son’s hand in his father’s own, has yet lent him warmth. Here, a period of coldness overtakes when the sun is drawing over its own curtains. Grief would settle in, as a frost over summer flora, while this sorrowed father becomes surrounded by shadows. No warmth, except for the remnants of the body temperature of an ongoing fever. No light, as his son will readily spring to the peace of death.
While eyes close, while life fades, while a heartbeat slows its hammering against the chest cavity, the father notes a memory. Of one memory that wakes his own eyes to the rush of a current that enters a lake. It is one memory that speaks its story a thousand times more to the light from the sun, than to the bloomed life that was beside him. A desperate man among total design, clinging to life for its signs, not for where it was present. This memory, a testament to that, is audible in words as “Why would ever the sun choose to go dark?” as was said, here upon the recollection.