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.
When I die, I don’t want clouds or trumpets or gates of gold. I don’t want choirs or kingdoms or any of the old promises they painted on stained glass. My dream is simpler, sharper, more infinite.
I want to open my eyes and see her face. Just her. The first light after death will be the glow of her skin, the warmth of her eyes locking onto mine, the recognition that I’ve been searching for my whole life.
Around us there will be nothing—no sky, no ground, no horizon. A paradise emptied of all distractions. A blank eternity stretched wide and silent, but not hollow. That emptiness is for us. It is freedom, a stage for love with no audience, no judgment, no time pressing down.
She will smile, and I’ll know that everything—every shadow I walked through, every fire I carried—was only to get here, to this one unbroken moment. In that emptiness, I will finally feel full.
It won’t matter what came before. Hell, heaven, earth—it will all dissolve. Because I will have her. And in her face, I will see the proof that paradise was never a place, but a person.
The air is cold and crisp, cutting across the mountains like a blade. I rise with the dawn, the world beneath me still wrapped in its gray quilt of mist. My wings stretch wide, every feather catching the sun’s first light, and I push off from the crag, dropping into the sky like a stone before the wind catches me, lifting me higher.
Far below, the river glints like a serpent winding through the valley. I tilt my head, scanning the water’s surface. Trout flash and leap, unaware of my shadow drifting across their world. Pine trees huddle close along the banks, ancient and patient, the wind whispering secrets through their boughs.
A hare darts from one shadow to another, ears pricked, heart thundering. I see the swaying grasses tremble where it passes, but I am not hungry. Not yet. My stomach is still warm from yesterday’s feast—rabbit, caught on the slope where the wildflowers grow. I circle high, content to glide, tracing the ridges and folds of the earth like an old map I’ve long since memorized.
Far off, a rival calls—sharp and piercing, slicing through the morning quiet. I bank left, turn my head, but do not answer. The sky belongs to no one. Not me, not him. Let him hunt where he pleases. The ridge belongs to me. I’ll not waste energy on games today.
Clouds gather on the western horizon, their bellies swollen and dark. Rain will come by dusk. I’ll return to the nest before then, the high branch where the wind can’t touch me. My mate will be there, feathers rustling, our chick already squawking for its next meal. I’ll bring him a fat trout, something easy to catch. He needs to grow strong, needs to know the way the wind bends around the mountains.
A flock of crows gathers below, tearing at some carcass left in the clearing. Bold and loud, they squabble, scattering in every direction when I dive—just a warning, just a reminder. They have their place, and I have mine.
I rise again, carried by the updraft, and watch the world move slowly beneath me. The deer step softly through the grass. A fox slips into the thicket, nose low, tail brushing the earth. My eyes trace the river’s bend, the far edge of my territory, and I know every stone, every shadow.
The sun climbs higher, warming the world, and I drift lazily, eyes half-closed, ears open to the hum of the wind. I belong here—woven into sky and stone and the wide, whispering valley.
When I finally turn for home, the wind cradles me gently, and I let it carry me. I’ll sleep with one eye open tonight, high above the ground, while the rain drums softly against the leaves, and the river dreams its way through the dark.
