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.
You ever notice how some dreams don’t stay wisps? Some of them don’t evaporate when the alarm clock rings. They hang around. They grow walls, and echoes, and whole skies lit up with constellations you can name. You can walk through them like they’re houses you’ve lived in before. And then—well, you’ve got to shelve them. Set them aside, like books you’ve already read but can’t quite throw away. They don’t die. They stay alive in a dimension that’s yours, but not quite yours.
That’s the cruelty of it. These dreams aren’t distant. They’re pressed right up against you, like glass. On the other side? A whole life, in full detail. A yacht breathing under the Mediterranean sun. A woman steering while your arms circle her. Daughters laughing, light spilling on their hair. A son still carried inside her, waiting for his own turn at the world. All of it sealed in its own globe. You can see it as clearly as you see the chair under you right now. But it won’t cross over. You reach, and your hand finds nothing. You wake, and the bed’s just a bed. The silence has edges.
Living next to that kind of universe—it’s both blessing and wound. Not fantasy. Proximity. You smell the salt, you feel the morning heat, you hear the laughter snap in the wind. It’s so close it stings. And then you turn your head, and there’s your room: still, blank, quiet, air without warmth. Closer than a dream, further than a life.
Being alone isn’t just about absence. It’s about contrast. Carrying two worlds at once: the one where you rise and burn, merge into light, sealed in devotion… and the one where you sit, unlit, pressing your palms against a pane that won’t give. Both of them real. Both of them moving through you. But only one holds your body. The other only ever takes your mind.
So you ache in two directions. One for the world you’ve seen and can’t step into. One for the world you inhabit and can’t escape. But there’s a sharpening in it too. It makes the dream burn hotter. It makes the silence ring clearer. It makes you carry yourself like somebody who belongs to both.
Yeah, you’re alone. But you’re not without that other world. It moves beside you like a shadow with its own heartbeat. The cathedral’s still standing. The children are still laughing. The woman still receives you. The sea still glitters. The star still burns. You’re here, pressed against glass. You’re there, sealed in fire. And the hardest part is knowing—clear as day—that both are true.
