The Moon Told Me So

I was meant to make an analysis, but my thoughts—I cannot jostle.

I.  A cataclysm of curiosity arises, fresh from my appraising eyes. You are the cracking ebullition as you are heaved up, and I bet my spine straightens up and my brows cock up, too. It is intriguing how you draw forth, upward, dead but awake. Alive, new. Beautiful. Is that an enough word? You say you first saw darkness. Is it lonely down there? Do you remember fresh tears? Do they boil hot or naturally stream helplessly on and down your cheeks? How does the night sound down there? Are you stricken by nostalgic reminiscence as you float up? Your being here, your first day in sheets of ice that are in love with you, is a mystery waiting to be solved. Did life feel too unfamiliar? Gosh, I don't know. Would you know? Is your tongue roasting with fire. Is it waiting to erupt?

(I like the way you wake up, kiddo.)

II.  Or is your entrance mum with stroking breath? The air is new to your frosty lungs, aren't they? You have no luggage following you. Where do you come from? Is something trying to pull you back? Into the darkness? Is an end pulling you back, tickling your throat, strangling you? Are questions murmuring too loudly too soon? Does wintry oxygen knock in you bashfully? It is.... magic, eh? Breathe in, breathe out, choke on chilly gulps of a beginning. You seem sad, stranger. Alien. What are you, special snowflake? What is that beauty tracing out of that pretty face? Oh, nope, I am not mad. You are mad. You can't help but wake up from, what, a bad dream? Oblivion? Darkness? A strange boy with a pretty face—that's what you are. You are colors of frostbite. I like you.

III.  There you are. You're almost there. Oh, your eyes. Are glossy. You blink dreamily. I am befuddled with how sad you look, or I may as well be misinterpreting. You might just be drowsy. Is there such a thing as a misinterpretation, though? I digress. I can see you. Are you scared? You're undeniably suffocating—that is your beauty, and your expression, and your birth. You seem so alien, but you're so human too, I guess. Do you need more air? I'm beginning to think I have too much air supply. Your breath is a refreshing imprint in all of space. I can't think and it's weird. Naught flitters by without a wish to take it all in, like you're taking it all in. I know I'm not supposed to be sad, but I am, and it's funny because you're beautiful???? Is this a routine of yours, strangely mad and madly strange boy? Knocking under skinny and slippery ice and looking all mildly aghast? Why do I think you're mad? I guess you're not. Your emotions aren't dormant and they create elegant patterns on your face. There is something honestly and enchantingly intrinsical in you that makes me feel funny. I don't know it yet. 

I know it's lonely.

I can't think straight.