My heart professes perpetuity, and was so faithful to, yet my mortality minds no frame nor memory of you.
This epidermis sheds and skins from disuse; need my heart evidence, might my chill-cracked palms be your proof?
The contours of your constitution, all known by their names, are perhaps now amended by the passage of passing age and days.
The sirens of your voice's sound, awaken me from my dreams; the symphonies of my soul's supplications, now so strange and foreign seem.
My heart professed perpetuity, and is so faithful to, so should this skeleton and its dependents devoice - mon Amour; my heart remains with you.
Seconds sire seasons, life by stroll or sprint fades.
In search of higher reasons, none are ignorant of the null totality of yesteryear.
Time is neither favour nor fear; for Oak roots expand their domain, just as vast canopies usurp heaven’s terrain; a babe’s bones are made strong, even more so as toddlers play, yet still shatter, to dust decay, by the passage of Time’s decades.
Live this life, for better or worse; surmount the strife, and derive blessing from curse.
I lost my brother that day.
I am homosexual yes, but farthest from gay.
Now the fear woven within his speech is quite queer; it's more befitting of prey than peer.
Very well then.
Are you cold tonight?
Do your eyes envy the rain?
If only Noah's Flood, could wash and drown these longings all away; then I would dance with you, my love, beneath the rising waves.
Tomorrow isn't ours, but tonight, I'll message you thrice as much as I could write; of how I'd hold you closely, and closer, on another Sunday night.
I imagine you cocooned within your blanket, covered from head to toe. Your glasses are on the bedside table, frosted and clouded by the cold.
There's nothing quite like your voice, and that way that your happiness seems to flow; your heart is the thing that I want most to hold... to keep and shelter, and to share with you my own.
The sky is a generous grey, beneath whose pending charity, sentinel palm trees stray. Whilst impetuous Atlantic gusts, act as a guide to the tourist of Saharan dust, from our heritage far away... yet unclaimed.
And so it shall remain, for domiciled within Barbados' Summer paradise; I would ask only for the rain; that it might wash these seared whip wounds of Sun's splendour... away.
The fruit trees are as my family's; their abundant branches intertwine and then once more, rewind to form a clan. Yet, their want of leaves says to all, of the prospect of Summer's well-fed famine... they had made no plans.
So, we would ask only for the rain; that it might wash away the browned chlorophyll of a cruel Summer's plague. Much like nightmares... to be preserved only within the introspective and reflective archives of Yesterday.
Upon bent knees, I humbly appeal to the Holder of Divinity - Nay! I pray, for but a half empty, half full cup of rain.
History is the religion of the Survivors; the blasphemy of the Defeated; the faith of the Victors.
History is the suspicions of the Non-Believers.
When smiling has become a chore.
When to be truly happy is something that you don't know. Then you will understand, my daily exercise to keep blood coursing through my hands.