When I first learned of Van Gogh,
I stumbled across the knowledge
that his final words were
“this sadness will last forever.”
An overwhelming sensation of familiarity filled my chest,
the ache resonating all too well.

I think of all the words that could have been said,
of all the words that have been said to me,
deciding none of them would have been enough to save him.

If only I had a chance to tell him
no,
it won’t.
If only I knew him to say
no,
it doesn’t.

This sadness is not permanent.
Yes, it remains, hidden in our shadows, but
you learn to see past it.
Everyone wants to paint their pain,
but Vincent,
you channeled that awful torment into beauty,
you saw the beauty in the shoes, the bedroom,
the weeds and the washers.
You saw the beauty when it wasn’t pretty.

It is funny how someone
who created so much beauty
could not find any in himself.

In painting a future,
ending his life seemed more promising than hope.
So in that wheat field,
his chest kissed the bullet of a revolver
and he walked patiently
towards death.
To suffer is human,
but to transform the banal into the magical
is something only you could do.

Vincent,
Didn’t anybody tell you it gets better?
Didn’t anybody ever say that even if it doesn’t, you can?
You made entire galaxies out of the night
that we will spend lifetimes
finding ways to admire its beauty.

I know this world can be cruel.
I know that flowers turn to dust and the sky turns black,
but even you could see stars in the darkness.

Vincent,
this sadness wasn’t made to last forever.
Flowers regrow and bloom again
even brighter than before,
and before you know it,
spring is here.
I wish you could have seen it.

There will be another starry night.
I know,
because I have seen it.