Are they trying to tell me that there is no more birdsong or butterflies? Are they able to see more than I can… and I’d like to believe them because I’ve failed so many times.. but isn’t love all about forgetfulness? I still trust.
I want this secret flower to grow in my dark world. It’s not for other eyes. Perhaps he thinks I’m insane… or that I’m hypersensitive.. or that I will not survive the real world’s aggression. I’m none of these… I’m merely in love… with many many things – A bit lost but not because I have no control but because I don’t care. I belong to a constellation of frozen stars gestating in the wombs of unquenched fires.
The fact that he makes me write should be good enough to lose several hours of sanity for him. Perhaps he does not think of me at all, but I fear the day he would leave my world, carrying his overwhelming presence with him.
It has been days since I felt thankful for another paper to write on… it has been days since I remembered soporific music or drowned in inane dreaming.. will he bring back the nostalgic tune? Will I be kissed by a rose on the grave?
The irony of all this lies in the strange setting… real world rambling on in its monotonous bouts about materialism and money. Is this the atmosphere for love? Is n’t love supposed to be born in the moonlight? Under starry skies and dragonflies? Why would love choose this oppressive atmosphere to walk in like a breezy touch of hope? Love is a sly god.
I love his fingers too for they gesticulate with his eyes and create lovable pieces of writing. Why are they making me believe that he is not the man I’d love to love? They are liars but they could be wiser than me.
Thus I go on… in relentless…. intermittent… hope interrupted by fear, stereotypical warnings and hopelessness – from myself and others. This muse is enough although at a distance.
I think he knows.. I think he is a magician who can read into my hidden pages with his iridiscent eyes. I think I’m tripping on him and I’m beyond redemption and this time for real…