You.

I think there might just be a god.

I stood on my balcony last week and looked at the moon. It's enchanting, whole, perfect, emanating the kind of radiance even non-poets could wax eloquent about. There are jagged traces of yellow all around it, little jagged traces, just enough to flirt with the dark of the sky, just enough for it to almost say 'peekaboo' and disappear. For children to look at it in awe, in wonderment, in anticipation of newness. For lovers to stare at together, watching their common dreams unfold in the promise of the vast sky. For people to look at it for hope, for peace of mind, for things they look for in war and destruction, and never find. For me to be reminded of you.

To make me smile again. To see you in my mind's eye, perfect as always, running your hands through your hair. To think of your eyes, in all their gold-flecked russet glory. To picture you laughing your perfect laugh, even though I can't hear you. The silence is deafening you see.

I claim to be a cynic, a pessimist, who sees nothing wondrous in the world around. Someone who thinks the world lives and dies behind a facade of goodness, lifting at times to give us world wars and atom bombs. Someone who thinks there's nothing to live for, but the ultimate, all-encompassing armageddon.

I'm also the same person who looks at the moon and a lot of other things, thinks of you, goes dizzy with an onslaught of memories, and grins like a maniac.

I love you. Doesn't it show?
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PS: PURE FICTION.