"Somewhere someone is thinking of you. Someone is calling you an angel. This person is using celestial colors to paint your image. Someone is making you into a vision so beautiful that it can only live in the mind. Someone is thinking of the way your breath escapes your lips when you are touched. How your eyes close and your jaw tightens with concentration as you give pleasure a home. These thoughts are saving a life... someone is calling out to you silently and you are answering without even being there. So crystalline. So pure. Such life saving power when you smile. You will never know how you have cauterized my wounds. So sad that we will never touch. How it hurts me to know that I will never be able to give you everything I have." - Henry Rollins
I am haunted in my dreams. Almost every night, you come to me. Often when we talk, I just have questions, the "whys." Last night was not much different, you came to me and you wore rugged, yet very well cared for boots with antique suede. And you held me tight until as one, we became the shape of a half moon. You held me as though to never let go. But I had a plane to catch and there were no answers, so I left as you stood in the empty room, once lit by the glow of our moon. You watched me and held back answers because of pride, leaving my heart half full. I asked my father why he didn't protect me. I fall from cliffs and I am consumed by water, everywhere. My thoughts drowned in the torrent, as you watch, I fall, fall, fall away.
Every tear drop cracks like thunder, with bullets racing through my heart, my heart has fallen, failed and fallen.
My sleeping has not been well and I need your ghosts to disappear. For the first time, the finality of silence has left me profoundly sad and made me feel incomplete. Part of me left with you, I saw my essence escape to stand with you in a past that lingers. I am left with memories of days in Hyde field, invoking your image, and your ghost in my sleep. In the light of day I find myself in contemplation of the loss of life and futures that never were and a past that melted from existence a long while ago. Smiles, light, tracing constellations, conversations at dawn play like film reels. Flickering at unexpected moments, my hand is grabbed, my heart becomes still and we walk away, faceless and without shape. In morning light to sounds of starlings and doves, with gentle breezes rolling in through the trees, through my window I am grabbed from the water to breathe, exhale, breathe.
I have become a storm when I like to be still, I like to be still, I like to be still. Nothing is real.
“If I lose the light of the sun, I will write by candlelight, moonlight, no light. If I lose paper and ink, I will write in blood on forgotten walls. I will write always. I will capture nights all over the world and bring them to you.” - Henry Rollins
