You tread so, unfondly and almost—
too carefully after the echoes
of wintry whisperings, yet swerve—
and twirl in a grand vesture
of fireflies, of distant worries;
dream like a glowing summer
amongst dwindling youths
and enraptured stardust:
solemnly, and dearly too.
"I will be happy, if you were..."
insistent, you professed; yet deny me—
your caged heart.
Your silhouette casts over
the fiery meadow, over—
the vibrant ruins; finds harbour
only, in the eyes of the serpent
and prance wreathed in light.
Caress your clipped wings; embrace—
yourself and bear in mind, always:
I will sit with you in the dark.
Memories of a distant summer.
When certain thoughts gather in a cyclic recession, and the measure of moments decline; however dearly:
various arrays of colours and motives tend to converge into a common, single voice:
"I wanted to be better."
I once asked about halations, and wondered what they were;
If they did at all exist, for once.
How they'd appear only in blurry and unfocused pictures;
Or perhaps at times, still and expectant on the verge of our tears?
Now the question:
"What makes a halation?" And if we're thinking of the same thing.
So I then wrote about halations, and tried to make (believe) sense—
of what they were (not) portraying.
I spoke of their lucidity amongst all others;
of their ever-curious charm,
and of their picturesque whims—
yet denied them a photograph; and opt for another.
Hence was said:
"More than a picture; a metaphor."
In other words: are we thinking of the same thing?
With it, I'll once again talk about halations, and wonder where they are;
Wonder when they might appear.
If the lights still scatter after—
and on the far side: if they would cast the same fair shades then.
Here I quote:
"For every shot taken is merely a remnant of the most beautiful."
I will speak of the light; and without doubt—
be thinking of a different someone.
You'd ask me over again,
If it's okay to not want;
to not ask for more.
I would in turn answer again—
and over again:
"Despite the distances walked,
and sparing moments borrowed,
I wouldn't mind,"
because to love is to give,
and that is all I know.
I wish I could do better. I really do.
To the ever-lustrous Starlet—
Should I miss the fireworks,
Would you then save me a dance?
For when the stars would align,
for the afterlight,
and one just bow in the starlight?
And its captivating constellation.
Should hope flee and wane:
When the sparkles pass over
and stars reflected no longer
by the shore, in the afterlight,
Would you return my bargained sight?
Where falls your shimmering stardust?
Should we see a downpour by the starlight
and be drenched agleam under the moonlight,
Should I miss the excitement cascading
and the silken-moon cast in your eyes,
Will you tell me and speak of the light?
Upon my crown; by the eventide? If at all—
A glimpse, of that one look ever-bright;
(A tint of honesty, on those rosy cheeks;)
for when I love you so.
(for when you love me so.)
If your waltz would let the heavens rest undazzled.
I wonder when we’ll meet again. I really am missing your sweet company.
Know that every mention of the stars reminds me of you;
and that whenever I look at the stars,
I'll think of you.
Always on my mind.
The anticipation: the moment before the line picks up,
one compelling split second before I hear your voice.
And the ember keeps its light.
Would I ever have enough of you? I miss you.