Your parting lips only serve to decimate. To remind me of what I already know.
How it is and what isn’t real, beginning to twist and intertwine to a point where I can no longer follow any stream of thought with trust.
I roll back. Holding my nose out of habit the dark waters in the back of my mind envelop.
Tranquility doesn’t reside here. There’s no shelter. No rest for the wicked. And I’m wide awake.
Chaos and order dance here. Like Astaire and Rogers. They waltz and spin across a floor of fire and ice. It’s beautiful here and there’s nothing to see.
I write here. I wallow in angst amidst the pages that don’t make sense. Dripping with ink and tears I’ll scratch at the walls in vain for hours. Until. That word that fits comes to me. That word that I hope will drive my point home and scream “*******!” into the deafest ears.
And sometimes I write about you.
My bane. The Achilles’ tendon that keeps me grounded. A reminder of who I’m not. One who cannot be so fortunate but must toil in a pit of my own design.
I’ll emerge from those tranquil waters. My bath that does nothing to cleanse my soul. And I’ll fall again into my role of perpetual sadness. Because I cannot see beyond death. Her wings unfurled before me. Her warm darkness longing to envelop and shroud me from my own reflection.
Where are you my love?