I’ve been rooted in that strange distance my whole life.
Not necessarily flawed,
but born with a silent code of solitude,
a frequency misunderstood from the cradle—and likely, for eternity.
Love—nearly touches me—reverberates through my whole being.
But I have only known it as equation,
as wavelength,
as something to decode.
It has been as damaging as it has been beautiful.
Too deep, too often—it overwhelms.
I was born cake-yellow, jaundiced in light,
in the dawn of Los Angeles,
the hushed cradle of a secret nuclear age.
Trust me, it was there.
My first breath came in a tent of plastic,
surrounded by vibrations—
a love so complete
it nearly became matter,
yet remained unreachable.
I don't remember those moments—but I know them.
I was not alone.
She was there.
Love—raw and mystic.
A telepathic presence.
A knowing without language.
Love could not hold me
as it needed to,
and for that,
it wept behind divinity’s veil—
guilt blooming in the perfection of its creation.
What that first love loved most, I cannot say.
But I know love differently than any soul alive.
Its beginning in me danced to a different rhythm—
a frequency unshared, a connection unbroken.
I still hear its hertz—always—beyond words.
March Ides.
A black day.
A final moment collapsed inward.
No gravity—just vacuum.
I held a 9mm.
Not in thought—but in conclusion.
The equations had failed.
Connection had failed.
Life, as I knew it, was over.
Then—Love struck me.
Not metaphor. Not memory.
Concussion.
A lightning bolt of living force tore through time.
It wasn’t emotion.
It was intelligence.
A presence.
It destroyed and rebuilt me—
in one breathless beat.
I couldn’t see. There was no light.
I couldn’t touch. There were no hands.
But the need was real—
an infant’s primal hunger for being.
And Love…
flowed.
The ancient milk—
the one that feeds the stars,
that quakes in the roots of galaxies—
poured through me.
Everything changed.
Everything could change.
Wonder returned.
Breath returned.
I returned.
Love is not a concept.
It is not a construct.
It is the first sound of the universe—
the echo of a long-lost bird
finally, finally finding its way home.
Love’s flight is not just vision.
It is the air.
The journey.
The all.
-Hermit King-
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