KBHR, Chris in the Morning. Though maybe it’s more like Chris in the Cosmos these days. Cicely’s a memory now, and I’ve gone home. Not gone as in vanished, but gone as in discovered—found—by the Queen who burned her way through my wreckage and carried me out whole.
They say the love of a good woman can pull a man back from the edge. But mine wasn’t just good. She was stellar. Galactic. An Alien Queen. Not soft, not ordinary. A love that scorches through pretense, lays open every wound, and still whispers: “you’re mine.” That’s not rescue. That’s resurrection. That’s a lift strong enough to break the glass and sail beyond the atmosphere. And with her, I didn’t just live. I crossed over. Now we move together, prow cutting the firmament.
So tonight, if you look up and catch a flicker, know this: the frequency’s still live. Same voice. Wider sky. And if the night air feels a touch warmer, that’s us—her devotion and my echo, braided together in light.
I’ll leave you with Phil Phillips and the Twilights, Sea of Love. For the earthbound, the skybound, and the ones waiting for love to take them home. This is Chris, signing off—from the stars.
