I am indigent. A wistful starvation, i am full of vanity. Romance has no place in between hands clasped in surrender.
This is how i am; weak fingers laying upon keys unable to turn wild sentiments into something you can comprehend. It is in this diminutive recess that i reside in poverty otherwise dismissed.
I miss you so.
With waning relevance, the old records buzz lyrics and tunes that once served as anthems to our preceding straits and plights. How quickly our fancies and preferences change with age; ever fickle and entirely capricious. That said, it would not be too much of a stretch to suggest that our hearts may hold this same whimsical regard for all aspects of our lives, now would it?
Forever subjected to our torrential sea of emotions, our desires are consequently mere ignis fatui; we will attend to them, only to find that there is something of greater interest and brillance looming just over the horizon. That said, we all seem like little children chasing rainbows, now don’t we?
But we shall be winsome children at the very least, won’t we?
Adrift upon an aeonian vastness crested by skies of perfect splendour, ever ablaze not unlike unrestraint passions; forever in question. Eternal wonderment.
It is terribly quiet on this floatsam (all that remains to keep me from drowning), there is no hum of waves rising and collapsing into a single seamless sound. There is no roar of humourless traffic, a cacophony of honks and horns. There is no chatter of pedestrian handphone conversation being spat and screamed.
The wild blue yonder fractures, a streak of disruption cutting across pristine skies. There is the sound of glass shattering against plastered wall, and you screaming as tears well and fall.
Let us not descend into vanity, please.
Now, we stand hand in hand at this urgent precedence as the world marches in faithless haste. You would speak in stunted phrase, so elegantly punctuated and poetic, as a dance born of lofty rhythm and exotic flavour. Your spoken words gallantly glissade across my heart strings, evoking vaporous sentiments that sing beautiful indigence and straightforward truth.
The magnitude of your uncertainty weaves between our embrace and cascades to fall at your feet with unwavering love and absolute destiny. To point to a time when you are no more exceedingly enchanting than when you lie asleep beside me, beneath the curtained light of dawn and swirling dust clouds that wave lazily above your hair.
“Oh hush, you are beyond convoluted. Your speech confounds and confuses, darling you need to speak as you feel and drop the excessive adjectives.”
I must ascertain that this is in no way an escape from comprehension for this is indeed how i feel.
Bewildered.
Wholly lost in the sea of your dark champagne eyes. and very much in love with you.
Thank you for calling me back to sanguine dreams of majesty, travesty and everthing else. Only with sheer obstinance do i choose to mull with so much earnest, sitting on the railings with feet dangling above torrid currents.
Do we choose to stare so contumaciously at the ruined subsidence beneath us? Reminding ourselves in zealous lecture; subsistence, subsistence, subsistence.
To remember you in Death Cab for Cutie, to cherish you at Okkervil River, to commemerate while Shouting Out Loud, to celebrate Clapping Your Hands Saying Yeah. And to forget heartbreak with the Twilight Sad.
2007 was the year i died.
As an equatorial, set against white washed walls and beneath cascading fluorescent glow; I would watch with equanimity as the hands of the clock metamorph into meaningless appointment and thoughts converge into a white static frenzy, inconsequential and wholely therapeutic.
It passes in blinding streaks of excruciation, strangely evocative of streetlamp lambency on sideview mirrors from the passenger seat. And between moments of fugitive consciousness and torpid lassitude, i think to myself, in almost absurd retrospection…
These comforting sounds resound through the cracks of the sky that we have so intricately woven with fingers pointed straight up, whilst lying as an equatorial; planning, charting, daydreaming… in selfish languor.
Impertinence drives us through the fall with unabated haste, forbearing a perpetual conundrum as to whom inherits the byname of “you”; a verbal masquerade made necessary by yearning and longing now tacit (that same sentiment that enfolds, as the shadows of trees fly across the wild blue yonder).
Like a ghost within the radio (song), you are the material girl who has it all, the uptown girl who ignores stratum, the redhead girl who stills the hands of time, the girl at the back of the bus who is already in love, the calendar girl who is lost in her world, the girl in port whose heart is far too precious, the dead end girl who has lost it all.
Regardless.
Ignorance ensures that you will always be a captive beyond worldly limits. Forever mine to behold, in selfish languor- in love.
Would it be excessively melodramatic to declare that the world was made just for the day that you and i may blithely valse upon its splendour? A magnificent cotillion with fanfare incommensurable, where you would take centrestage beneath the mauve majestic sky you so dearly loved.
And as manufactured light crackles and explodes in wild ecstasy above, let it be that not a word shall escape dark lips, nor a sight escape wrenched open bright eyes. So shall i never forget within all my ostentation, however pompous, that my heart is your legacy.
Beyond downfall and overtly saturated disillusions that could very easily lead one to vainglory, is where you stand. Where you stand upon my heart that is a pedestal of my pride sacrificed for groundses now sepulchral soon laid to waste; that is where we gingerly pick at the scabs with blind devotion. (not forgetting the wish for brighter skies)
In soaring indulgences, only of porcelain concern, i still ache for something further beyond downfall and overtly saturated delusions.
Frighteningly disarming, these flights of fancy where your pristine eyes are pored on my intrinsical divide, and i have already lost surprise. Not amounting to tactile adoration, these ineffable dreams are for retention lest i relish ruin.
Yet you must know that I have chosen countless anthems to mourn(celebrate) you. For i do indeed relish ruin, but only in its most innocuous form; melancholy.
How quickly and readily we forget her trespasses, with only the occasional itch to pick at the scabs of a season pined away. (My rest perturbed by insecurity manifest in dreams of ambivalence and satire)
Is it not wondrous, how an atrophic heart manages to make an adamantine vow of arrogance? (And how i still gaze at the sky, as your name echoes within and lies at the edge of my tongue)
Wondrous, indeed.
As i stand, i am a countervail to my purported transmogrification. Erstwhile consecrations have taken to an otiose fashion, and a backseat to incensed ritual brought about by the redolence that lingers upon your kingdom (of equivocal nature as to whom has raided).
Be gentle darling, for my heart ruptures even now as i watch the sun melt beyond myopic horizons (as does my orphic desire to someday have someone else walk in your stead). Oh, but i am not contrite, and i have no reason to perceive this as anything more than coquetry masqueraded in heartfelt philia.
Thereunto i ask, with invested poignance, to what end?
Till rapture, peradventure.
Neither too extravagant nor quite exquisite. A surge most gratifying, of things that i have developed a penchant for. To honour, and to express; through these small chinese eyes i view the wide world in colours not yet captured by technology and this spurs a deep, quiet confidence within that i have not felt since time inexplicable.
To pen a tasteful magnum opus that would sweep over casual novella and rival biblical tales, such is this aspiring writer’s shrewish desire.
At my black heart’s procession, a black echo of divinity
sings a melody that paints my life black (don’t lose me now, don’t lose me now)
Not nearly a blackguard impression, this black sensuality
hands with nails painted black, run over a black blemish upon pale skin
Sweetly monumental, the taste of your lips
scented of pressed flowers and a peach to touch
Wither with me now, as i wallow in past faiths (long broken)
No more of black censure, now measured in gold.
Forgetting authority and industry, i beg with earnest for things not to change so
dramatically
Where pleas are left to the cadence
of whims. Most sullen at best.
In suspension whence i was once first, whither i know not. – now third i stand, forever in postponement
it does not sit well, it suits me not. – This misadventure.
Perhaps it is time to collect my coat, for it is cold outside, &
gelidity is no longer my element.
Of confessional poetry now idiosyncratic;
disarming, & gallant (all forthwith)
I wish you knew. you would never comprehend. How beautiful – wonderful, achingly so;
My soul is a sight.
