A letter to an enzyme

Long ago,

I thought of writing this.

As I memorized your face—

your virtues,

your failures.

How you taught my ancestors

to devour the firmament.

They drank the blood of stars,

took in its warmth.

Turned breath into sugar,

wind into sweetness.

I blamed you—

not for what you are,

but for being entrusted

with life itself,

and failing,

as if that was

okay.

A longing

flowering inward,

closing like a fist

in the pistil of a flower.

I loved

this expanding universe—

its embrace,

its heartache.

And I lost

the strict image

of this metamorphic face.

This android

searching

to be made of flesh.

This android

searching

for new ways to care.

Inefficient catalyst.

Yet you remain—

carried by generations

who loved you

just enough.

What’s the purpose of something,

if it is never perfect?

What’s the purpose of loving,

if you won’t surrender yourself?

What have you made?

What brought you here,

still inside algae,

the flowers,

the trees?

What brought you here—

and why can’t you change?

Pics are mine