You write of Icarus.
I saw the poem on your fridge.
A constant reminder.
Yet how many candles must we burn before we have our wings?
I see in your eyes you do not fear the sun, nor the dampness of the sea.
What do you fear?
I fear I’ll love the sun.
I fear I’ll love the clouds.
For falling is inevitable.
Will you be there to catch me?
We’ve gone through all the candles.
I have my wings.
Take me higher.
For I am falling.
Love me like summer.
I’ll be the warmth on your skin.
The high light in your eyes.
Do not escape to the shade.
We have the wind.
Night is our solace.
The black lace that binds us together.
Covering our sins.
But it is in the light that I see.
Who I am.
Who I want to be.
More than a season.
Love me like summer.
For I have fallen.
Fear the calling of winter.
Only time will bring spring.
How long before my eyes don’t drift to the door?
Waiting for you to walk in.
How long before our ghosts fade in places I revisit alone.
You kissing me against that wall.
Our walks in the night.
You next to me in bed.
When will I not be able to recall the sound of your laughter?
When will I forget your touch?
We had love and in an instant it was gone in a cloud of smoke.
My most elaborate trick.
I even believed it myself.
That I didn’t love you.
That I didn’t care.
I thought the white rabbit always reappears.
Like nothing happened.
Waiting for the next show.
My eyes still drift to the door.
The crowd is gone.
Believing the show is over.
And I have never left the stage.
Do you believe in magic?
Or was it all just an illusion?
What are you willing to lose?
Do you undervalue your own life so much that you would risk it over this?
Are you so selfish to not even consider the impact of your theft.
Will it be a daughter?
All for a cheap thrill.
You may forget this one night.
But Every. Single. Night.
For the rest of your life you will remember.
Are you willing to lose a piece of yourself?
Are you willing to lose your trust in yourself?
Or was it even there?
It scares me.
Where was your mind?
Were judgment and sense stored so far in the back of your head they couldn’t be recalled?
Where was your heart?
No doubt it was racing, did you refuse to listen to it?
To its alarm?
What if you were to go back there?
To slip into that state of mind so easily like the first time.
Are you willing to risk someone’s life. Are you willing to have their blood on your hands?
Are you willing to lose yourself?
To lose your sense of reasoning.
To become reckless.
Is that really you?
Are you willing to lose your life?
Can you so easily leave your family and friends in mourning?
Wondering if there was something more that they could of done?
All for a few beers.
Perhaps one too many.
(I wrote this after a friend got a DUI last week. Thankfully no-one was hurt. It could have so easily been a completely different story. What are you willing to lose?)
I built a wall around my heart for you.
It took years.
You kept tearing it down with your devilish grin and soft eyes.
In time it held true.
You walk in the room and my heart does not flutter.
My butterflies are caged.
Impervious to your smile.
Immune to your touch.
Indifferent to your voice.
When before the ground beneath my feet would falter and there was only you and I.
I flew on the wings of butterflies.
For seven years.
I was high in the clouds.
And you were on the ground, admiring flowers.
You found a beautiful one, but she has thorns.
Have you felt their pain?
Or are you blinded by the beauty of petals?
You threw rocks at the wall last night.
Like pebbles on the windowpane and I faltered.
I opened up.
Your butterflies have long died but there was something in their place.
I looked beyond your shoulders.
At everything around us.
Funny how Rocket Man changed that.
When I was always the one in the clouds.
Your steady hand on my waist.
Your soft breath on my neck.
Our interlaced fingers.
I focus on your shoulders, your body.
I let myself fall into you.
And it’s just you and I.
I’m not in the clouds.
And it scares the hell out of me.
I was right about the butterflies.
The wall is back.
And I’m flying.
‘Til touchdown brings me ’round again to find.
It always starts the same.
My story writes itself you know.
You do, because your story wrote me out of it.
It wasn’t an end of a chapter.
You’re an anthology and I was a sentence.
One you refused to punctuate and more importantly end.
I became run-on, fragmented.
I’m a novella.
Rich in detail and character.
Think of what isn’t written or seen behind those black bars on the pages. It’s worth it.
It’s time to put a period on the end of that sentence. But it doesn’t mean I’ll stop reading it.
Cause I have.
Over and over and over again.
You are not a chapter in my life.
You are the black ink on the pages.
It never ends the same.
Now I write in colour.
Off the top of my head.
The search for life – to live.
And then I’ve hit my wonderwall.
Thoughts of you flood back into my head.
Suffocating, but in a good way if that’s possible. Like the fraying of a great dream you know you’re waking up from and you’re teetering on the edge of reality and imagination.
Imagination is candy.
And you don’t want to give it up.
To succumb to it.
Odd that you’re coming into consciousness and clarity and you yearn for the dream.
Would we, in reality, do the same if we knew it was safe? That we could wake up from it all and the mistakes that we have made would have had no consequence?
But there would be no accomplishments.
What would you have in this parallel world.
Or do you even dream?