Today is a day,
for nostalgia;
For the reaper to finally and momentarily be
beaten.
Even in all of his infinite wisdom,
in which the past becomes just a laugh,
and the lurid poisons of our love,
have the shallow touch of a feather.
When the snow begins,
we relive all those duldroms,
all those meaningless nothings
seemingly so meaningful and wrong,
long ago.
We retell our stories,
silently,
to ourselves,
feeling less bitter as the words
litter our minds,
powdering the pain,
and covering with joy,
our sorrow.
In dementia,
they say,
our love goes stronger every day.
Grows newer
in old ways.
I hope to be like you someday.
Today,
we will beat the bitter sandpaper of tomorrow,
that which rubs away our definition with every brutal blow,
with the soft tapping of our fingers
against our skulls.
Puzzling over what made us beautiful and purposeful,
instead of what crowds against us like a box,
instead of what destroys us like a skipping cd,
instead of what sings against our mind like a harpy
with it's constant verses of regretfulness
that grow stronger with every fatal flaw
we rehash in ourselves.
once more,
you will be as beautiful to me today,
as that swirling suffocation.
I watch you fall outside my window,
covering each and every lichened rock,
in a linen of newness.
In silence,
I stop listening for the return of your love,
and instead marvel in the present satisfaction,
that you are,
and were.
I revel in your presentness,
in the swiftness of your presentation.
In the delicacy of your touch,
and the humility you drive me too,
as you take me too my knees with
each
quiet
drop.
And yes,
you will melt.
And yes,
I will remember.
And yes,
I will see the snow melt,
driven away by the erosion of the sun.
Feb 12, 2014
Feb 12, 2014 at 7:10 PM UTC
Today is a day,
for nostalgia;
For the reaper to finally and momentarily be
beaten.
Even in all of his infinite wisdom,
in which the past becomes just a laugh,
and the lurid poisons of our love,
have the shallow touch of a feather.
When the snow begins,
we relive all those duldroms,
all those meaningless nothings
seemingly so meaningful and wrong,
long ago.
We retell our stories,
silently,
to ourselves,
feeling less bitter as the words
litter our minds,
powdering the pain,
and covering with joy,
our sorrow.
In dementia,
they say,
our love goes stronger every day.
Grows newer
in old ways.
I hope to be like you someday.
Today,
we will beat the bitter sandpaper of tomorrow,
that which rubs away our definition with every brutal blow,
with the soft tapping of our fingers
against our skulls.
Puzzling over what made us beautiful and purposeful,
instead of what crowds against us like a box,
instead of what destroys us like a skipping cd,
instead of what sings against our mind like a harpy
with it's constant verses of regretfulness
that grow stronger with every fatal flaw
we rehash in ourselves.
once more,
you will be as beautiful to me today,
as that swirling suffocation.
I watch you fall outside my window,
covering each and every lichened rock,
in a linen of newness.
In silence,
I stop listening for the return of your love,
and instead marvel in the present satisfaction,
that you are,
and were.
I revel in your presentness,
in the swiftness of your presentation.
In the delicacy of your touch,
and the humility you drive me too,
as you take me too my knees with
each
quiet
drop.
And yes,
you will melt.
And yes,
I will remember.
And yes,
I will see the snow melt,
driven away by the erosion of the sun.
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