When I was eighteen I thought there could be no death to love, that if you felt it strongly enough it would entrance you forever. Even if a distance in the flesh separated myself from the one I loved we would always be bound together. I never believed that one could be hauntingly disappointed by their lover, by the one they held above all the rest, yet I have lost love to death, to the fury of the mind, and now to a silence. This song plays across my mind when I think of the fire that burned before me ten years ago, and lies in tiny ruins now.
Sometimes I have this overwhelming desire to kiss you, to take your wrists in my hands and slither my body along yours. You would breathe upon me, the sweet scent of your breath along the bridge of my nose.
I stand before the heated sky, the desperation of the night unfolding and all I can think of is the touch of my lips upon yours as if this would be the cool, soft edge that would slip like ice between us. I flutter like a dragon who desires to hunt her prey, and to catch you in a fitful sleep where your dreams come alive like magic. Our bodies pressed together by condensation, no distinction between whose blood boils more, faster, or harder. We are the same, breathing into each other’s mouths as one would do to save the other.
Some nights I feel courageous enough to sit in the dark, let the sunset burn the bridges of the sky through and through. I draw my curtains closed to even the night, or the glistening blades of the sun rising. I listen to the hum of the quiet, the distinct sound of my heart hammering against my ribs. The slinking of my soul from my flesh, basking in the resemblance of the past where nothing stood between love and salvation. Yet the past is lost, and it only trembles when I breathe but that is often enough to know there is no bringing it back.
I like to dance between the open, and closed doors of the past and the present as if I were a ballerina cascading from one edge of the stage to the other on the tip of my toes. These doors swing open and shut just like the doorways of my soul. The wind brushing at my backside while one shuts, and another opens so that I can leap through it with the edge of a sword. I take hold of what has been lost, and what could be kept by the fury of my own temper. It has a rhythm and beat all to its own, as the birds sing to one another, these doors are the glue in which keeps my mind soaring.