By the time
the light is done playing
on the surfaces of things
and penetrates willingly
and without reluctance
the navel of what must
inevitably find its way
to consciousness,
it shall have decided
which part of itself
it can less sadly relinquish
in order to capitalize
more majestically
in the other—its timing, or
its ability the expose
what hides and
secretly craves to be found.
It’s true that light will
have to mimic water sometimes
not so much the way it flows
as its limitations,
the capacity to be contained
and adopt the shape
of that which prevents it
from spreading itself
indiscriminately over
the little fragile things
we vainly wish to protect:
old love letters,
folded paper cranes,
or immaculate bank statements
that can neither
keep us warm nor
survive the small accidents
done on purpose by fate
or the impeccable synchronicity
that, defenselessly,
light will have to forgo
if it wants to wash its hands
clean of the responsibility
of being the one to tell us
what we are too finally solid
and frighteningly real
to tell ourselves:
what ought to last
and what can be washed away.
Being akin to tears,
water should do that.
Light can only shine and
make everything bright again,
until in the end, we can know,
as we will understand,
hopefully, why we felt that way
and what it’s all for
if they were not meant to stay,
anyway, where they
both fit.

“Весенний фото этюд” by photographer Popoks