We were born at the same time.
Same year, same month, same day, same second.
Different mothers.
Our lungs tore open together.
Our first breath. Our first ache. Our first ecstasy.
I screamed.
She opened her eyes.
While I kicked against the ghost of the womb,
she received —
in her tiny heart —
one drop of light
from the torrent that flooded her.
That photon was meant for both of us.
But it chose her.
And no other came to mine.
I was born blind.
For thirty years, I walked through darkness,
not knowing she carried a sliver of sun
meant to reach me.
I lived among sounds, textures,
fragments of the world —
but never color.
Then,
at a street corner,
a point of light moved toward me.
I didn’t know what it was.
I had never seen.
I spoke.
She answered.
We talked —
in the street,
in a park,
in a bar,
at home.
She told me of brightness.
I told her of shade.
We made love.
And it was everything.
She was everything.
After,
my face on her chest,
eyes open,
watching the little star that beat inside her —
I whispered my vows,
mad and silent,
again and again.
In the morning,
she was gone.
On my nightstand:
a note.
One word.
Pressed deep into the paper:
THANK YOU.
I don’t know what for.
But since then,
day and night,
I thank her in return.
Thank you for coming into this world.
Thank you for existing.
I’m here. Come if you like. Come as you are. I’ll know you.
You are the one light I see.
Little firefly in the dark.
Come — or don’t.
Live wildly.
Live freely.
Live everything you were meant to live.
And when the dark comes to rest on your skin,
don’t be afraid.
It’s an old friend.
I’ve lived with it.
It knows me.
So when your last breath leaves,
smile.
Close your eyes.
Leave the colors behind.
And die with me.
