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Cindered-ember eventide slouched ponderous upon my spine, a fracture in the celestial vault through which her silhouette seeps. The ache of her birthday like a thunder held in the ribs. Bones went hollow to make space for her. And so I rise to speak, to spit syllables forged in longing and iron: Happy birth—a day unfit for mortals—to you, Yu Jimin. To her I cast this salutation: may the world remain ever unready for your ingress, may each proscenium tremble beneath the gravity you wield, may even divinities still their breath when you commence to stir.
For all of you, you bear her not in costume, but in consequence like fragile saints with fire in your palms, I offer not peace but promise: My beloved Micysse, Seraine, Camilune, Dissy, Jasmine, Beatrice, Sierra, Emily, Jasmine, Cheyisa, Manuela, Olivia, Emmaily, Sharleen, Lily, Asheera, Taliette, Ammeisy, Kearney, Glyssa, Jeliam, Kishelly, Evielica, Ivory, Ilyssa, Aelyn, Milla, Khaivy, Lunerith, Sassy, Kleira, Annora, Kacyil, you all shall walk paths stitched with omen and honey. That your mirrors hold no shame. May the winds bend in favour of your path, forevermore. Let the skies keep burning. Today, she was born again; today, we remember why we ache.
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