My definitions of love are written in your penmanship. Universal texts about what is and what will be, bound and stacked in long halled libraries built for the memories of you in my mind. Books missing every other word or every other page but still some how managing to say something. With notes on the jacket. Reviews from the Titans and the Furies saying things like..

Riveting but incomplete. Masterful in it's approach. Excited for the sequel.

Me too.

Ink stained hands that want to finger paint text on the skies of far away cities. Things like:
Today is good.
You look beautiful, so smile.
I believe in you.

My words wrapped around the limbs of trees I water with the wrung out bits of the past version of myself you helped me to wrap in tissue and form into little dolls that we burned as we hid under the covers of our ideals about what came next late each night.

My body, rigid and limp, all at once as your gaze would whisper ‘light as a feather. Stiff as a board’ as I rose and rose unable to hear you tell me that the roof would only stop me if I let it. And I let it. And I let it. And we said our goodbyes so many times. Spanning so many years. Each one an art piece in the medium of the emotional age we played nurse in. First in a lite brite. Then on canvas. Then on sheets in blood. What’s next? I see sand on beaches and me far away. But strangely? Both in a British Territory. I take the low road. Don't I always? You take the high road. I will rub your feet when they are done. I will pull the thorns out and massage the knots and the ‘have knots’ and the ‘can knots’ and the ‘want knots’ out. And kiss your wounds and wipe the dust.

Dust. I live and learn and die and cry and scream in between breaths, it seems, to find words to the songs I once thought I wanted to sing.

Elliot? My mermaid doesn't sing for me either.

So let's disturb the universe, you and I. And I will bring the hash and you will bring the magpie. And we will each have half so neither will be fully responsible for the lie.

Dine with us. Pull up a chair. I'll dine on the memory of the smell of your hair until you say ‘no more’ and refuse my missive, my Dulcinea. My Woeful Countenance is less my windmill and more my shame of how I was when I was with you.
I was capital.
I was extraordinary.
I was a ticking bomb.

Now I have no fuse. No way to make the fissures in these quickly aging bones to heal.

So, Lazarus? Can we make a deal? Caily likes dandelion wine, in another lifetime where we could find a punishment to fit the crime.
But I love her.. You. And you..

And the leaves all fall down and mulch into brown.

And I am sped.

Goodnight, my love…

Good night sweetheart..

Good Niiiiight.  ¶ 6:07 PM 2 comments