And on that day you were born, my Sylvia, I murdered your father. So how you would grow up will depend entirely up to me.
I burnt his graceless flesh and mantled you with isolation. I threw his clothes on the window and buried his existence in the ground. Syl, sometimes you see him suspended in midair, I know, like a strange curve on the portrait, like a portrait wrapped in moth, like a moth perched on the wall, like a wall that doesn’t suit the architecture. But you never bothered to find out, good girl.
You were created in the course of the stars, on the backyard, my Sylvia and molded by flowers, so I must feed you with butterflies, drown you in poetry. You are the constellations I have disarrayed, the world I will dismember. You are the infinity, my love. You are the stretch of the ocean, the look in your father’s eyes before he sleeps. You are the incoherence of forever. You are the inconsistency of happiness.
My Syl, I fear that you will grow up, one day. You will leave this little cottage, and search for a better plastered wall. You will doubt my existence and those bleeding of the feathers. You will tear your skin and discover a new you underneath. You will find your crater of imperfections, you will be astonished, you will begin to wonder, you will begin to question and you will forget about me. You will begin to ***** my lullabies.
Hush, my love, and close your eyes. I will make you immortal. I will stitch you with stardust. I will cover your little lovely bones with perfection. I will smoothen you like a wax; you may kiss your scars goodbye. I will preserve your name with you, and lock you both in a beautiful cage. I will make you immortal. I will make you immortal. I will make you immortal. Like a prayer. Like a lovely prayer.
Your fist locked like a period, began the history, encompassed the world, the silent plea, the quivering resistance, the flickering flame; your little mouth in absolute surrender. You are the rigidity of my everlasting delight, the bleeding poppies in every battleground. Sleep, my Sylvia, sleep, and never wake up.
Stay infinite, my Syl, my sweet, my love. We are greater than literature. We are larger than biography. Always remember that.
Always remember that.
Always remember that.
Always
Remember
That.