By. Osiris Valdés López
It was not the thunder that struck us down from the sky,
nor the ancient fury of jealous stars;
it was the simple and trembling miracle
of looking at each other without armor.
We fell—
but not into the abyss,
rather into the burning flesh of the world,
where dust has memory
and the heartbeat dictates laws deeper than destiny.
We were eternal, yes,
but we had never felt the tremor
of one hand seeking another hand
in the half-light.
We renounced the marble of altars
for the warmth of a back,
the incense of prayers
for the broken breath of desire.
And in that renunciation
we founded a kingdom more beautiful than Olympus:
your chest against mine.
They called us fallen
as if to love were defeat,
as if to kiss were exile,
as if fire had not been born
to burn in the blood.
But look at us now—
crowned with luminous scars,
drinking from the simple chalice
of each shared dawn.
Our thrones are the rumpled sheets,
our scepter, the whisper,
our victory, the moan that rises
like a secret hymn in the night.
Let the centuries write
about our supposed ruin;
we will write with our skin
the true story:
how two gods chose the fall
to learn the height of the embrace,
how eternity became an instant
and the instant, infinite.
If this is exile,
let no one redeem us.
If this is sin,
let no one absolve us.
For in the burning dust of the world
we discovered what heaven did not know:
that love is neither throne nor lightning,
but one heart beating against another,
and that heartbeat—
stronger than any divinity—
is the true epic
of the fallen gods.
#randomhouse
#osirisvaldéslópez
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