I am fading.

It is a slow process, fueled by the moon and the sun and the planets. The light turns itself farther away from my soul, until at last the darkness consumes me.

It is a cat at night. I can see its claws but its body is a flurry of motion with a mind’s pulse to determine my fate. One second passes and the lines are drawn in the sand; the vision moves and the wind blows the words away.

They’ll never see my S.O.S from up there, so high in the sky. Their faces are turned ever higher; the sun is rising and their eyes rise with it until midday. They do not notice the retinas burn; they still see light when it is dark, and darkness in the light, and whiteness becomes blackness after all. In all, we are one, they say, and they see only white plaster figures in the sky with no faces.

I am fading. When the color is in my hand, it is melting, like ice. The ice palace is blue with the sky’s hue, green like chlorophyll, red like blood. My hand touches the sky and the color fades to gray and the ice melts into water in my hands, into the puddles at my feet.

The vernal phase sets the cycle in motion. The colors flow and blossom and grow, pulsing like a heartbeat, steady as andante wraps the silence around the notes. The life within is the impetus for growth, and the growth is the catalyst for life.