When the soul has known darkness like art, silence swells up until it fills the lungs. All you will hear is the euphony of your teardrops and the crashing of your heart. Our folly is love, its fodder is touch. We are starving with mouths filled to the corners of our lips, yet the words will never reach the surface. Speak now, hold me now, I beg, lest we give in to the rapture of the deep.
My veins bleed blue,
my brain filled with memories of you.
Storms brew in that beautiful mind,
and to me you’ve stopped being kind.
Wretched is this love, peace escapes me.
You run everywhere but here, I am left with nowhere to be.
Time’s been expensive, a luxury you couldn’t afford.
Shadows loom, telling me to cut the parachute chord.
We’ve been found wanting, every damned salvation tried.
No short of nefarious, no protests cried.
Holding on to things we never had,
love ripe for parody, no justice to be had.
Cinnamon tempests in teapots hot with tea,
biscuits dripping honey, yet no love for me.
I watched helplessly as the gush of emotions that once drowned us slowly ebb and then stop; the sunset of our moments slowly casting shadows on the ground we’ve set foot on.
I was real. I certainly felt like I was.
But you reduced me to nothing but a dream — one you’d happily come to bed with each night, only to wake up from without much thought in the first light of morning.
I will never take human form in your eyes. I am a balled up mess of dreams and tears and regrets.