There is light my love, but also, there is darkness here, sometimes.
And sometimes the light is blinding, and when it fades out,
the dark is darker, scarier because we’re used to light.
We feed on love, we’re high on dreams and lust and each other,
we’re fucking bright,
we shine and glow, and when days grow dark,
they find us unprepared, and we do nothing,
but stand still and wait,
we say, this too shall pass,
because darkness doesn’t last long, and light always wins.
There is light my love, but also, there is darkness here, sometimes.
And life isn’t as whimsical as it’s supposed to be in fairy tales,
we are the jokers, the tricksters, we’re Puck’s little helpers,
and when death comes to claim life,
he finds us unprepared, and we do nothing,
but stay silent and mourn,
we say, this too shall pass,
only it doesn’t,
because we don’t know how to fight death and we don’t know how to die.
There is light my love, but also, there is darkness here, sometimes.
And sometimes darkness comes fast, disguised in new forms and old shapes,
dressed in new ideas and old habits,
it comes in bursts, in floods and heatwaves, in failures and letdowns,
and finds us unprepared,
and we slip gently into that good night,
we slowly die,
because we don’t know how to fight darkness or how to rage against the dying of hope.
There is darkness my love, because we did nothing when lights went out,
because we danced and danced and danced like ballerinas,
like the swans in the lake, like sugarplum fairies,
we mixed it all up, but the cake didn't rise,
we said, this too shall pass,
only it didn’t,
we failed at dancing, cooking, playing, loving,
and life is the exact opposite of a midsummer night’s dream,
life isn’t a carefree joyride, it’s sad and cold and hard,
and Oberon, the king of fairies, still lives here somewhere,
but there are no forests anymore and he can’t find his way home,
he’s lost, defeated, dying,
and we are dark particles now,
because we swallowed, we swallowed, we swallowed,
and we postponed war until it was too late to win,
we daydream about summer,
because our hearts remember what light feels like,
but our eyes, our bodies, don’t.
Mileva Anastasiadou is a neurologist, from Athens, Greece and the author of "We Fade With Time" by Alien Buddha Press. A Pushcart, Best of the Net, Best Microfiction and Best Small Fictions nominated writer, her work can be found in many journals, such as the Chestnut Review, New World Writing, Milk Candy Review, the Bureau Dispatch, and others.