Mi Hombré

In the first silence, before breath was known, there was the darkness—vast, unseen, eternal. And in that endless night, the moon arose. Cold. Divine. Perfect in his cruelty. He hung above the void, carved from the bones of forgotten light, and the heavens bowed beneath his gaze. The stars, trembling and newborn, gathered close to him, drinking his radiance like worshippers at an altar. But the darkness—she did not bow. She knelt. She stretched herself across creation, shapeless and holy in her sorrow, her endless expanse trembling beneath his pale fire. "Let me hold you," she whispered, though she had no voice. "Let my emptiness cradle your light." But the moon did not hear. He needed nothing. He was the wound and the cure, the god that destroys by simply being. His light touched her edges but never her heart—a mercy too sharp to be love. To the stars he spoke softly, calling them his children, his chosen. They glittered when he looked upon them, foolish and aflame with borrowed light. They mistook his glow for affection. The darkness knew better. "You make all things beautiful," she murmured, "and you do not even know how merciless that is." For there was no kindness in his shining—only purity so perfect it became pain. And still she ached for it. She, who was everything, desired only to be undone. Each night she reached for him, spreading herself wider, not to consume, but to become the void that gave his light meaning. Without her, he would have no brilliance. Without him, she would have no purpose. When he waned—when his silver form grew faint, she told herself it was for her. That in those moments of darkness, he rested within her embrace. But even that was a lie she kept tenderly, like a dying flame. For he did not fade in love, but in indifference. Still, she waited. Still, she worshipped. "You could destroy me," she whispered, her voice a tremor across the heavens, "and I would thank you for it." For what is ruin to a thing already hollow? Her longing festered—patient, obscene—until it became worship older than faith itself. And so the ages turned. The moon endured, untouched, untamed. The world adored his light, blind to the shadow that crowned him. And the darkness remained, she's unseen, unholy, the silent keeper of his beauty. At the edge of creation, where time forgets to breathe, her voice still lingers. "Shine, my beloved moon, and I will follow. For if I cannot have you, I will be your silence. I will be the abyss that adores you enough to let you destroy me." He sits beneath the faint light of dusk, surrounded by people who seem to orbit him like fragile stars. Their laughter drifts through the air, soft and fleeting, while he remains at the center, he's calm, radiant, unaware of how his glow burns those who dare to draw too close. He is the kind of man who carries warmth like a weapon, gentle enough to make you stay, dangerous enough to make you forget how to leave. From the distance, she watches, unseen, uninvited, yet always there. She exists in the silence between his words, in the spaces untouched by his light. There's something sacred about her restraint, like a prayer she's too afraid to finish. To move closer would be to shatter the fragile boundary between longing and madness, between what is holy and what should never be touched. "His admirers surround him, living in the warmth of his presence, while I linger in the dark, quietly watching. I love observing him though— it's through his words that I glimpse the kind of person he is. He's a writer, and so are his admirers. And me? Just a retired writer, a burnt-out office lady, and a dancer whose body always gives out before her heart does." Her words are not mere thoughts—they are invocations whispered into the marrow of night, prayers that bleed into the wind. The shadows listen, and perhaps, so does he, in some unreachable corner of his soul. She does not envy those who circle him, basking in his gentle gravity. Let them glow for now. She will remain in the dark, where truth wears its real face, where devotion rots into something more beautiful, more dangerous. When the last voice leaves and the night begins its slow collapse, she remains. Watching. Waiting. Loving in the only way she knows how, from the edge of the world, where silence becomes worship and the heart becomes its own undoing. Because he will always be the light she was never meant to touch. And she, forever, the shadow that keeps him holy. She have watched the way they gather around him, his devotees, his fleeting stars, all drawn by the warmth that blooms from his impossible calm. They mistake his gentleness for grace, his light for love. They call him kind because he smiles, divine because he speaks softly. But I have seen what lies beneath. I have seen the hunger sleeping in his bones, the cruel serenity that drips from his touch. His beauty is a blade disguised as mercy. Yet I do not move closer. I do not beg to be seen. Let them bask in his radiance while it still shines. Let them mistake his glow for salvation. They have not yet learned what it means to bleed for the moon and call it worship. "Do not mistake me, Mi Hombré, I do not claim you—no chain of mortal want could bind what you are. But in the realm where shadows breathe and silence sings, you are mine. Not by possession, but by recognition—the way the abyss knows its reflection, the way ruin knows beauty when it finds it. You are the ache I wear like a crown, the ruin I would die to taste." So let the world sleep in its ignorance. Beneath the veil of midnight, where forbidden hearts dare not wander, I will find you still. I will follow the pulse of your voice through the labyrinth of dreams until your name burns on my tongue like a curse disguised as prayer. And when you turn to me—eyes like bruised stars, lips like sin. I will kneel, not in surrender, but in reverence. For I, Lilith, am chaos and flame, yet even I bend in the presence of my Lord. He does not belong to me, nor I to him, yet the universe folds itself around our silence, and even the dark dares not intervene. Thus it was, and thus it shall be— for even the light owes its glory to the dark that loves it, and every god is only as divine as the shadow willing to burn for him.