For years I had forgotten his name.
A name so grave,
so bold,
so heavy.
A name I dared not whisper,
not even in the dead of night,
when I longed for him most.
A name that danced on
the tip of my tongue,
twirling
and spinning
and leaping across the taste buds.
I used to speak to him every night.
And then most nights.
And then occasionally.
And then not at all.
That’s when it started happening,
the terror,
the deaths,
the growth.
I grew into the world,
watched as it fell apart
despite the desperation
of a race trying to keep it together.
I watched the blue skies turn to blackness,
the sun disappear over the mountains.
I stared into the stars,
wondering if other galaxies
held such tragedies as this one.
And so the dancer fell,
fell,
fell to the earth,
like an angel who had lost his wings,
lost his will.
And with the dancer’s death
came the name’s death too.
I never uttered his name again,
until this day.
This day when it seems the earth
has crumbled,
fallen like the dancer,
like the angel,
like the name.
And so I call to him,
that sorrowful name,
and pray.