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Array
(
[sid] => 152053
[catid] => 1
[aid] => mick
[title] => nameless.things.
[time] => 2009-08-06 14:54:07
[hometext] => A letter to all the loves that consumed sanity, and faded, but are never forgotten. Bit long, but I hope you enjoy. ( And we held each other as if we had a chance in being whole. )
[bodytext] => Dear Adoles, The wind is heavy with tears yet to spill, and shatter everything. I feel it; it clamors softly beneath the dust and the blood that fails to reach my hidden places. My veins do not hold sonnets anymore; I’ve lost faith in their throbbing. I seem to have lost faith in your hands as well, Adoles. It pains me, their silence. I am left pulsating beneath consciousness and your memory, unanswered. Waiting, yet none of your ink seeps through these cracks; waiting, regardless of my want to forget your soul ever kissed me. Ah, but how can I disregard such a divine tragedy? How can I shun a weakness for weakness, when I am forever counting them within myself? We are once again a product of a cruel enchantment. Our bones splinter equally, though I sift through the air tuneless, as you stain winds with fragmented Beethoven. I’ve lost myself in desperate rememberances; they are blurred and obstinate, for how can a watercolour dream survive the caress of a thousand tears? How can a heart sing when the voice that possessed it no longer shakes its structure? I hear the breath of a sleeping rose, and think of the day you died. There were pieces of sandalwood burning beneath your eyes that were always pleading, and I remembered thinking that god would have wept if he saw you then. The moon poured it’s pale salt without shame, covering you with laments that belonged on the curve of a fragrant petal, or the mouth of a voiceless tomb, but buried itself in the silence of your skin instead. I remembered the night when you turned to me, broken by a bodiless suffering, and whispered, “God sleeps in my hands now. I feel his death as I felt my own that moment when there were only flames. When every breath was ash and mother, crawling deep behind my spine and into my lungs.” You asked me if I had ever listened to a moth’s wings beat. I told you that beauty does not belong to the frail. ~*~ I cannot pervade the sound of this distance. It tastes of endless nights, and the cold breath that only death brings before salvation. Beauty sleeps warm in a sobbing violin; your strings lay irrepairable between my wrists, and at times I can still hear you breaking beneath veins that remain yearning, but not for your name - For you are, and will always be, a phantom. Adoles, I hope you hear me dying. - S. [comments] => 1 [counter] => 205 [topic] => 22 [informant] => FleurdeSang [notes] => [ihome] => 0 [alanguage] => english [acomm] => 0 [haspoll] => 0 [pollID] => 0 [score] => 15 [ratings] => 3 [editpoem] => 1 [associated] => [topicname] => LostLove )
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