You are saturnine and I am mercurial. You and your isolated ice. Me and my hidden side.This inability to meet in the middle and push the water from my lungs.
We dance with broken hearts and we throw bricks at empty houses. We torch down ghost towns. But when your birthday is a requiem of a love long lost, these April floods don’t seem so rough.
We are the actors on this burning stage. Split-screen dialogue. When your life is flashing before your eyes, it’s hard to keep up with the lines. Oh, but this is all our fault. We made our names in the city lights. We begged for infamy with folded hands and crossed fingers.
I think you are only a far-fetched far cry away from getting to my head. The tables have turned. I’ve made you immortal with my ‘sheep in wolves clothing’ act. A mistake that made me has now debated against me. Mirrored fragments of a diamond monster. A nursery rhyme meant only to pass the time has become a hit in this crowd of crows.
P.S. I’m running out of shine.
Your stumbled apology comes out and joins in the cacophony of our lost moments. If I could be so bold as to intrude on your inner monologue, I’d leave you with a hurricane headache. The walls you built are so thin and they speak in volumes. Whispers never shook so loud as they do when they come from such a beautiful mouth.
p.s. We never stood a chance, but we sure took so many.
Stuck somewhere between inconsistency and blasphemy, I casually remove my own head. And rehearse everything we said. I’ve never been one for making sense, but you wouldn’t know the difference anyways.
p.s. I know you’re wondering. The answer is no.
The only reason we’re playing this out, is because I just needed another secret to keep. You and I were never meant to meet. But, I make the best out of everything these days. Using life’s lemons as a chaser to offset the taste of you. We’re almost home.
You were always my silver lining, but now the paint has chipped away. Tarnished little mess. There are no more words left between us. Just skin stained green. Such a fake glow you have. Such a deep secret you’ve held.
This is the first time that I’ve felt like this. A first abandon, in search for absolution. A first for the starfish to attach itself to what seemed like a permanent rock.
You were once my shelter. Now you are the hurricane Thrashing with the waves. I can’t keep on like this. Pick a career. The calm or the storm. Because you can’t be both.
It’s not the first time and I can’t predict the last. You’re a little a faster than you were before; a little colder now. Tossing smoke rings around and twisted on our fingers. Just as long as you can remember the way. Just as long as you catch up to the pace. Like a boat through the dark sea. Like the lighthouse that you’ve always wanted me to be. I’ve got all this salt water in my brain, baby.
Every swan has a song and I’m pushing closer to this lake. This is my heartbeat barely connected to a vein. Eyelids pulse with the white noise behind the reasons. Smashing mirrors into monster blood fragments. Just to make it real. Every swan has her song and I’m warming up.
On the days where you woke up before me, I would run my hand over your side of the bed and beg for a small trace of your warmth. In these moments of half awake desperateness I realized more and more that I must have loved you more than you loved me and there was all your power. But there, on that bed so many times and at all hours, I couldn’t find myself caring. Take control and leave me ruined. Just suffocate me before you go and turn the lights off too.
I’ve heard that the stars have never lied. It’s makes me wonder as I look at the mess we’ve made. The webs that we have weaved.
I believe that I live inside of your deceit. It’s a stop, smile and breathe kind of thing. Something subtle here, and then tomorrow I will tell a tale of such great volume. Just to make you seem more appropriate. Acceptable for those who wait outside.
I’ve heard that the stars have never told a lie. But the Moon, has it’s phasing. And I’m waiting for you to spin out and come back down.
We don’t always see our patterns until they are pointed out to us from behind accusations.
Our passions lie in the red checkerboard squares, which are pinned against the black of our lesser evils. They seem to share a dance within our walls. A back and forth, blurring out the cross lines made from gold intentions.
The green of venomous redemption, spilling and pooling across Tiffany tear blue. The perfect roasted neutral of your blessed skin, tangled in the angry white scars of mine. And there’s always the grey of things I meant to say and the ones who got away.
We painted our home in the shades of us, but that won’t stop it from turning to dust.
What I loved the most was how easy your name was to say. One syllable slipping through dry lips. Half asleep in our Sunday best. The familiar stick of sweaty limbs tangled together in the thinnest of sheets.
Whispers of a future that never happened and gasping reverie for our pasts. Fingers twisted and manipulating mermaid hair, in the dark. Singing and humming through unsatisfied burning throats.
The sharpness of broken porcelain in kitchen sinks. The softness of eyelashes on sleepless skin. Words falling out in slurs and chokes. Each begging to tell a story, to hear one in return.
A wavelength shining a bright, confusing indigo, connecting star-crossed lovers. A god, a goddess and the shrieking sirens to witness, but never fully know.
Two stupid kids, who came to with strange burdens on their backs, just trying to catch a love story and ending up with only a story about love.
I don’t remember us ever breathing on the same beat, like they say happens in love stories. It always seemed like our exhales were fighting eachothers. Over lapping and off tempo. So, maybe we were never lovers. We could have only been conveniently placed. Adjacent on a bed with intertwined limbs, but no, not us. We were never in love. We were just young. We knew what we wanted and what was good for us. We just didn’t know the difference between the two