Gravity.

I wonder if he knows that things were made for him.

I wonder if he knows that the streetlights and the stars turn on to light his face up, his lips parted and his teeth glinting in the light. He smiles, he smiles and the world is satisfied. I wonder if he knows that the grass that lovers lie on is an ode to his green eyes, and the sun casts colours atop hillsides and mixes light with loneliness to make the hues of a sunset, just for him.

I wonder if he knows that soft music was made so that he can close his eyes and sway and move under low-lit lamps, yearning for things that could have been or that can be or that once was; that words were created to pass through his cracked lips and whisk through the air to reach blind eyes who cannot see why he is gravity, holding everything in place. I wonder if he knows that vast oceans were made in his honour, castles built upon them which hold secrets that not even heroes can hear, and waves foaming, bright blue and begging for him to drown himself in peace and no sound.

The unbearable brightness of the sun lights up his face, stroking his skin and caressing his flaws, but he lifts a hand and shields his eyes. Nobody knows, nobody knows and least of all him. He closes his eyes but the light has imprinted images on his eyelids, aching for him to see beauty.

There is nothing left here for him. Here on the other side of things; light means nothing here, but I watch as the glow that embodies him spreads and turns things to gold. Things are charred here; burnt and scorched and dead. I stand here, and pale and dirty hands grab and claw at me. I am somewhere else; somewhere where light means nothing. But I've watched since the beginning; I've watched as he stands on perfect ground, and everything shimmers with gold.

I wonder if he knows that life started when he began.