heaven is the honeycombed light dripping from your eyes, your body suspended in a single stained-glass moment of time. let yourself dream about lilacs, and then paint them onto your skin with chiffon. when the light hits the water to send it splintering back into your opened hands, drink from the pool and call it what you want. call it rebirth if you must. steal the falling light from between your shoulder blades and draw it out like sweetened wine. give yourself wings. it doesn’t matter if you never learn to fly because the implication of the sky will be enough to catch you. when night comes, turn the shadows under your palms into fractured horizons and unmake a halo from the remnants. remember how to drown. you know about sharpness, don’t you? clutch the memory of a coin-bright moon to your chest and let it go on an exhale until all that is left is a silvered pearl aching for the water. a promise: the daybreak will be softer this time. a promise: warm light will learn to bend around you until you are mercurial again.
Eunice Kim is a Korean-American student currently living in Seoul where she writes poetry, wishes on falling stars and pretends to not procrastinate. Her preferred mediums of writing are poetry and short prose, which you can find more of @ivyburied on Tumblr.