I still cry these inky tears on paper. I blacken page after page with memories. Cool blue pictures drawn out on bed sheets that have lasted longer than we ever did. You make me sit and think and fill little books with questions I never asked you and stories I never finished telling you. I hate you for making me question my happiness now after all of these years and for making everyone else not quite good enough not really worth my time.
I don’t want to think about who we were. I want to be someone that doesn’t think about how it felt to feel the heat in our cheeks rising and to know what its like to accidentally fall in love and not know how to survive afterwards. I love you in seasons. It fades, shrivels, crumbles to nothing then swells and blooms again. I keep stabbing at these roots but the wind always brings young seeds.
I wish I could reduce you to a stranger merely another passerby. Instead you are the most vivid of a sting of ghosts that haunts my bedroom at night. Stay in your grave, don’t remind me of what living was like. That was thousands of years ago and I’ve lived many lives since then. It all seems obscene to me now and the more I dwell on it the stranger it becomes. I write and rewrite pages and pages. I examine every glance every memory I can recall. Analyse every warm broken breath. Still I have no solution still the only sense I can make of all of this is that I love you and that you loved me once in some distant world. Some lost realm that I was so suddenly expelled from.I cant stop dreaming of you at night and waking up still warm from your touch .
No comments:
Post a Comment