the waitress

What is it to travel through this life unheard, as a meteor without observation? It is space and sorrow and infinity. It is an existence as point known only to itself. Hurtling and hard. Begging to be seen and needing to be heard. A cold stone, inert and predictable and plain.

I have spent years this way, as have most of us. In the kind of sorrow only loneliness can breed. A hardness forged by what feels like many forevers spent in absolute zero. But you pulled me in. Gentle gravity altering my trajectory week over week. By seeing me you let me see myself. And over time I reentered the atmosphere, consumed in all the radiant fire that requires. Burning and feeling and hurting and yelling. Uncomfortable and beautiful. Turning again from rock to human, where I can live instead of exist. Where I can love instead of hide.

You have done that for so many people. Bringing them back from the stars. Keeping them from drifting into forever with your gravity. I hope they remind you of that. So you can see that some days the sunrise is made of the burning of countless meteors. Meteors that you pulled back in. Passion and pain and human again. Shining bright because they know you are watching.

-w