LET THERE BE LIGHT
and God saw the light was good,
and he separated light from darkness.
He called the light day, and the darkness night.
So evening came, and the morning came;
it was the first day. (Genesis 1.1)
Tell me how you dreamt of charming bees and woke up with a swollen tongue. Tell me about resistance, about how it felt to slam your flesh against doorframes to try and create Coltrane blues out of your skin. Tell me about the first time you lost your innocence and just how good it felt to lay with the devil between your thighs. How you cried. How you picked yourself up, your body churning — and how you walked around afterwards as if you were wearing your skin on backwards. Tell me, because underneath that light there is a darkness. There are spots in your thoughts that the sun doesn’t hit. Tell me about your chiaroscuro. Your light. My dark. My dark and your light.
This is the dream of a room. An apartment. A city with a balcony with day and night hanging with their bodies pressed together outside the window. There is your skin on my skin on a skin of white bed sheets and my black hair flooding the page and bleeding all over reality. There’s this flood, the way we keep falling into margins with black font. There are broken bottles from the night before that I walk over in the morning, as if I couldn’t feel glass spines snapping beneath me, as if it didn’t remind me of how we used to drive around for hours, drunk in the back of strangers’ cars, throwing bottles out the window and laughing all the way. There is a God, or so they say. And he tells us, Let there be light — and suddenly you are smiling and your tongue is burning my lips so much that my entire body is well-done. That man in his dark room turns our globe on its axis and suddenly, my thoughts are sunburnt. There is a small child picking up flowers from the pavement and tucking its petals in his coat pocket. And like fate, the blind men see. And suddenly, a village falls deaf.
There was a time where darks and lights eddied together — a time where you and I weren’t pulled away from each other and even oil and vinegar were in love. There was a time, but God said Let there be light — and so it is that there is a you, and so it is that there is a me. God said Let there be light — and the businessmen learned how to clock in on time.
So tell me again how you were a child catching fireflies in glass jars, only to have forgotten to poke holes through the lid. Tell me about the way the light falls across your floorboards at two thirty in the afternoon, how panic sets in when you wake up in the middle of the night, the moon tracing you over like a crime scene. Of chiaroscuro. How one night, you woke up, with the light falling over your cheek, darkness creeping over from the other side.