Tales of constants and transitions – May 2016

Late night prayer (to the God of Transitions)

Late night tonight. Dark night tonight and I am going to wear my brightest smile. You won’t know that my burning heart is beating its way out of my chest. That my glowing eyes are searching for the exit signs. For that green flash of light that wants to swallow us all into the nothingness of an empty street away from the lights of this show, away from the startling noises, this relentless, disturbing, perfectly-timed cheer. This frightening, robotic, too cheerful-to-trust-in cheer. Tonight I will be the illusion, honey. In my red dress, I’ll dance away to the flow, I’ll steal this show just to steal one look from you. I’ll laugh until my mouth feels foreign, until your eyes are fixed on the curves of my body drawing the shape of infinity the wrong way round, upside down. 

Upside down is how my world feels right now (but you are not meant to know). Upside down is how the world feels to me as I spin on this dance floor, upside down as I drag this red lipstick across my dry lips, as I switch off this button in my head that still buzzes red when the thought of you returns, that still buzzes red with the thought that I still need you. As my thoughts spin to this music, all I can think of is that all I can do is surrender. Surrender to the wounds, accepting that it’s the effort to get back to life too soon after our death that in end will kill us. I surrender. I surrender, I surrender this overflowing soul of mine to the God of Transitions. To this cruel, vulnerable, wounded god who inhabits the waves of the stormy sea, all the sharp, short, painful storms of our lives. As I stamp my feet, as I flick my hair from side to side, all I can feel is this urge for a church to hide in, a bed sheet to crawl under, a bench where I can hug my knees to my chest and let the pain flow through my veins from head to toe, from heart to eye ducts. As the pain hits my cheeks like salt water hits the shore, I’ll have only a few words to say. Oh god, just take my prayer, I’ll say, if only you’d take me in your arms and tell me it’s okay to cry sometimes, that it’s okay to be a wreck sometimes, it’s okay not to be okay. 

That it’s okay to feel your knees weakening when the earth’s plates are shifting beneath you. That it’s okay to have wounds and to let them bleed sometimes. 

That it’s okay to wear your brightest dress, your brightest smile, your brightest self and still burn inside. God of Transitions, if you can hear me, there’s hurt outside and there’s hurt inside. It’s raining cats and dogs out there but there’s no retreat inside tonight. God of Transitions, if you can hear me, there’s still darkness in the light, there’s still light in the darkness. And maybe that’s what I need to hear. 

Tales of constants and transitions – April 2016

Passing through

At the end of the day, maybe we are only passing through (life).

I told you once we are only just passing time.

So maybe I should stand still with my soul ablaze. Maybe I should stand still as I fall in love with the thought of you, the ghost of your body, the thought of fire warming up your hands, your heart when it’s broken, your mind when it’s dark and it’s cold and you are shaken. We’ll dance in my head the way two people dance when they know their lips can’t meet but their souls are already intertwined. You’ll know I’m there cause even your skin will smell of my skin, even your eyes will feel like mine as you stare at strangers passing by. Your thoughts will bear tattoos of my name, the imprints of my thoughts, the pieces of my puzzle. I’ll break apart to piece myself for you together so you can know what I’m made of. And I’ll do this slowly. As if time is melting away into infinity, as if the only thing ticking this time round is our hearts – a slow, consistent beat, ticking, slow as the cracking of wood burning. We’ll go slow in my head, dancing to the same beat still, following the same steps, a sequence of circles and no triangles, only smooth curves and no sharp edges.

****

Maybe we are only passing through each other’s lives.

I feel it is intensity most of us fear the most. This elusive sense of permanence when we know deep down that all this is just a speedy dream, a flash of life, a short passage through the inconceivable measure of never-ending time. I knew it scared you to see my guts were on fire. I tried to conceal the spark in my eye, the movement in my hips and all that music, the beating drums, the soft piano notes, the screaming guitars, the loud laughter, the sharp tongue that breaks bones and mends them with the same accuracy.

I’ve never been one to go for soft brush strokes. Always holding my pen firmly between my fingers, writing my own stories. With bold letters and never any intention to scribble over my mistakes. You should know I take pride in the permanence of those mistakes that make us human. That I sign with blood red ink underneath both the dark and light parts of this painting I somewhat accidentally and somewhat purposefully put together.

You should know I could have loved every part of whatever happens on your canvas. And that I would have thrown all my colours at you if just you let me try. And that we’d have laughed it all off cause what is life but the messy passing of time.

****

Maybe we are all just passing by.

In our short time here, looking for someone who wants to play. Looking for someone who knows there’s nothing but chaos in the universe, in our universe, in whatever it is that makes us who we are today. Looking for someone who knows that despite the rules of the game, it is always the unexpected moments that we remember every time round.

****

I wanted to surprise you in every round.

Maybe I just wanted you to know that it’s you I wanted to pass time with. And that despite all the fire, I know how to swim against the tide and how to let you float. How to surrender to the thought that everything one day slips through our fingers.

I’ve learned it too well that whatever we have we lose.

But the fire in my guts – in case you didn’t notice – is my fuel.

****

I deal with loss as it comes but till then I enjoy the ride.

So maybe I am just one of those who enjoy the adrenaline. The spikes of pleasure, the rush of sugar high.

****

But, friend, if we are only passing through isn’t it worth it to enjoy the ride? Wouldn’t you agree that it’s okay to burn when the only other alternative is getting by?

I could pass by tonight. If you left the door (of your heart) unlocked, I’d come and warm you up tonight. I could pass by if you wanted me to. But now you don’t want me to, of course I’ll close the door behind.

True some of us have more fire to distribute, but in the end we are all just passing by.

****

Starry night over the Rhone – Vincent van Gogh

PS: ‘I am as constant as a Northern Star. Constantly in the darkness.’

Remembrance Note

I hope you always remember that you could never take up too much space in my heart. That you could never breathe in too much of the air I happen to live on. And that I remember. I remember how you filled in the cracks in my heart when you noticed the cold could creep in that way. That instead of running away you ran back with bandages when you saw me bleeding.

Too many have come inside my world through doors left wide open. Only to pick up the thornless flowers, to pick up the thornless thoughts. To have a casual stroll inside the gardens of my mind.

So I know. I know that you have come to stay. That you have dusted that old bench to sit on for hours, to tell me your stories, to pick up each and every flower. No matter the thorns, no matter the colour.

I hope you know that the space you take is sacred. That the air you breathe in has more oxygen when you breathe it out. That my space always expands when you happen to be around.

*******

Little Prince and the fox. An ode to friendship.

“But if you tame me, then we shall need each other. To me, you will be unique in all the world. To you, I shall be unique in all the world . . .”

She, Scratching, Searching, Staying (alive)

She was scratching her back,

scratching her skin, scratching her 

Fake wings, she said “wings, what kind of wings 

are these”

When they flutter and beat 

The dense air she breathes

But 

They can’t lift, 

But they can’t lift her aching body 

As it weighs her down to her

Knees,

Jumping with both feet,

Jumping 

High to reach a brighter sky, 

The stars so bright, but to this ground 

She sticks, 

Scratching, her soul scratching to 

Break free, 

her soul aching behind the 

Brittle bars 

Of her own ribs, 

her soul

Itchy, and She, 

She with a capital “S”, 

A nameless, Shameless goddess, 

With her fists clenched and her eyes

Wide open, 

Her strength is her crown, 

But her self esteem, well it sometimes slips

and She, she slides down the scales 

of her favourite blues. 

Well, you know, it’s blue and cold tonight 

and this is where She needs to be, 

in the darkness of this room, the 

Vastness of a field of

Infinitely

Tangled thoughts, the hallucinating warmth

of an evening so void of plans

that She can hear the echo of her screams, 

She screams and She knows

That her thoughts 

Still

Make noise,

Still, 

There is love in Silence, 

In Silence there is healing and

She

She is a small girl with sweaty palms

and fake wings that just make her look 

prettier, but not wiser, not as 

Strong as She needs to be

But She, She knows 

She is beautiful anyhow 

With this Soul that 

Scratches and Searches and 

Stays, connected to everything that matters, 

protesting, sometimes in silence, but always

Alive. Alive always.

She, the Rebel Queen, 

tired with no tiara to capture grandeur,

black circles underneath her eyes, 

She, the Rebel Queen, 

with explosive thoughts and a Soul that wanders, 

the power in her eyes as she Scratches and Searches and

Stops 

if She needs to, 

to marvel at the castles she built and the 

Wonders, 

those human wonders that make the 

Stay

worth it. 

Rational Artist’s Soul-o

I know how to balance in silence. How to stay still amongst voices that fade into white noise.

I balance inside my bubble as if I was born floating on air, a still creature behind a see-through, unbendable surface that separates the inside from the outside, the side of the world where the lights are dim and the feelings are bold from the other side. From the side of the world where blinding lights are scratching through soft flesh, drowning the subtleties, the nuances of whatever it is that makes us human. 

I know how to open the door for you so you can step into my head if you need to. So you can find a safe seat inside and watch my thoughts explode around you, in slow motion. 

I can even smile if I feel like I need you to take some space in the void of my head, if I feel that I need someone to share a piece of my chaos but only for a little while. I know how to smile, even when it’s dark outside, even when it’s so dark that you can’t see me smiling on the inside. 

But there’s also a lot I don’t know, so much in fact that I often lose balance when you are close by. So you should know that’s why I fall when you walk next to me, that’s why my voice shakes when I feel your breath hovering in the air we share, that’s why the words are trapped at the tip of my teeth when you are too close to my skin, so close that my skin starts shrinking and sweating. The truth of the matter is that I know how to hold on to those who have already reached out for me, but I cannot reach out for those my heart screams out for when the lights go off, when the late hours of the day find me searching for sleep wide awake.

I can help you to balance in silence if you want to. We’ll let soft music play until the noises seem covered in serene, white snow. I’ll hold your hand as we find completeness in empty space, as we draw full circles to recover from the bruises we sustain from the sharp edges we are drawn to. And when your eyes dry out, I’ll offer you my tears, and when your lips dry out I’ll spill out the words of my soul until you are soaked, swept, drowning in emotion. 

You’ll realise pretty quickly that I consume myself pretty quickly, that I don’t know how to stop myself from burning like a candle and – what’s even worse – that I tend to burn faster when I burn alone. I know how to give, but when I give, I give give give like there’s no way of giving up, like the only way to give up is to give in to your daemons. I may be fire, burning with life, but it’s the dead that I am trying to save most of the time. 

Here’s the thing with rational artists. They know how to revive themselves from the ashes. But they also know too well how to hold on to the ashes when all they wanna do is let go. Here’s the things with rational artists. They know how to fix the broken, perhaps a little too well. Piece by piece they glue life together, month by month they watch life burn right in front of their eyes. 

Here’s the thing with rational artists. They know how to love you, even in your absence, even in silence and perhaps a little too well. Here’s the thing, and you should know not to let them have that spot inside your head unless you are prepared to let them stay. 

Here’s what I wanted to tell you tonight. Not on paper but in person, if only I knew how. I would know how to warm you up if the night got too cold for you, but I would freeze to death if I had to call for your arms to come and find mine. You see, I know how to smile, but I tend to hide when I have to cry. You see, I tend to smile as I watch others reach out for you when all I can do is observe the shadows of those who come and go with such grace, such speed, such little worry and care. 

If I tried for a lifetime, I’d probably still not know how to let you go. So maybe, maybe it’s better this way. 

I know how to balance in silence, so maybe, maybe it’s better this way. Maybe it’s better on this side. 

You are welcome to join me and all my observations, and all the subtleties and all the nuances that would make us human (together).

Knots

“Έτσι πρέπει να ράβονται οι σχέσεις κι οι εξαρτήσεις, με αραιές, χαλαρές βελονιές, για να μπορούν να ξηλώνονται εύκολα.” – Σκόνη, Κική Δημουλά

*****

I know of too many ropes that were once tied together on both ends, I know of too many double knots that have come undone only on one side of what once seemed a mutual bond. I saw people ride cars together, fast as the speed of life, gliding down and climbing up that scale of feelings that has too many shades for the sun to capture from dusk to dawn, too many shades for the sky to dye itself into from sun to storm.

But in the end, there’s always one person crashing into themselves. There’s always one victim when the lights go off. There’s always two people, in the shared darkness of two separate rooms, wondering whether they are victims in stories that could have been woven together, yet have disgracefully snapped apart.

Stranger, there are no heroes in forgotten stories. There are only the tired heroes of fading memories, only the tired heroes in the shared darkness of two separate rooms.

*****

I knew you were falling too fast when I saw you tie that knot. I told you to fasten your seatbelt, to hold on to your constants like your life depends on those immovable stars that are pinned to the sky just like our photo is still pinned to my wall. I told you to hold on to yourself like you hold on to those illusory yet deep-rooted dreams.

Sometimes there’s cinematic light projected onto life and I warned you it’s distorting, I told you to resist suspending disbelief. You resisted my precautionary tales instead, and I liked you for that. I liked the way you would not lose faith in madmen, how you would not lose faith in all those useless things that nobody broke, but which got broken anyway. I liked the broken side of you – the strongest side of you – which did not mind risking repetitive breaking. I liked the way you patiently, delicately treated those wounds after words were fired like knives, how you polished conversations in your diary after tears had washed away the bitterness. I liked the sea raging in your eyes as you recalled stories of knots pulling apart, laughing, always laughing it off.

I liked the soothing tone of your voice, with all its waves and shakes and breaks, with its occasional laughter and occasional cough.

As I listened to the waves of your voice, I felt myself reaching out to tie a knot. I pulled myself back on that very night and still don’t know if I was right or wrong.

*****

The day after that night I went on a long, solitary walk. I walked across the river, I imagined the water washing away the knots, I imagined all the pieces of loose rope scattered in different ends of the shore. I dreamed of the sea tangling different pieces together after a wild storm.

*****

There are waves in your eyes. I know because I have seen mine in the mirror, so I can confirm. And I know you are detached, but at some point you must have tied a couple of knots. Stranger, if I never see you again or if our next encounter is simply a cold ‘hello’, I want you to remember one thing. There is always loss in whatever’s breaking, there’s always loosening knees. But there’s also the soft power of water, the strength of more neatly tied knots as we learn to pull sometimes together and sometimes apart.

*****

“May whatever breaks

be reconstructed by the sea

with the long labor of its tides.

So many useless things

which nobody broke

but which got broken anyway.” – Ode to broken things, Pablo Neruda

(Flashing) dots of light

I asked you one night: “And what if we were dots of light?”

What if we left a line of light for each journey we made? From bathroom door to bedroom window, to kitchen fridge for water, back to bed to give our thoughts a rest, our mind some time to switch off. 

2,580 miles in the speed of light, from home to home, the eternal traveller, a stranger in every homeland, the unforgiven drifter. And isn’t it funny? All these short silver lines for all the pointless walking, all the muttering to ourselves as we repeat baby steps, as we keep falling. Many short lines, careless strokes of silver for all the minor mistakes that never fade away. A dozen long lines in search of a solution, in search of ourselves, in search of something to hold on to. 

I draw a long line once to find someone who could give me myself back, but I returned (to myself) empty-handed.

“How would our map of life look like if we were dots of light?”

350 days of smudged silver ink, the pressure of time pushing (against) us, pushing us forward when all we want to do is fall behind. Helpless, irresolute children in prams we didn’t choose to be in. We swing high into the sky now, but we don’t remember. Scattered cut-outs from our childhood. We stare in nostalgia sometimes, but we don’t remember. Who  gave us the first push and why, why we are battling our way through the air. 

We are adults now, you say. Gloriously free, rebellious adults. 

I asked mum once if there really is a place somewhere called Neverland, whether I could make it my homeland if I liked. I asked mum once how free you can really be, in a world whose true boundaries are ticking clocks, ticking bombs, the boredom of everyday box ticking. 

She never answered but you, you said I should wait till we are real adults. 

Dance with me, you said, and time will have to surrender. 

When you didn’t come home that night, I thought about slow dancing with you for eight hours in a row. And then I thought about turning away, running away from you, running fast, in all different directions. I had a passing thought once, about how beautiful our maps should be, always running away yet always returning to our core, to our shared centre. 

Fireworks on a page, our story as an explosion of light. 

I told my dad one night that I wished to hold no one’s hand, that I would be strong enough one day to grow wings instead and fly. He smiled and I said that we could hold hands till then, that we could share the same life map if only we always crossed these streets together, that our lines of light would always unite into a bold, almighty line. 

Of course, our hands have been separated since then. But I think he would still agree that this is just real life, I think we would both still smile. 

There must be parts of his journey that coincide with mine, parts of your journey that are also mine, parts of our life maps that somehow merge into that bold, defiant brush of silver. And then there are those parts that we form when we hesitantly drag ourselves in opposite directions. Slow lines, heavy, both of us injuring the earth as we painfully break away from each other. 

I say welcome to real life, where things don’t always sparkle. 

I told you one night: “I think we are flashing lights. We might not shine that much, but I think we are sending signals of life to each other when it gets darker.”

 

PS: The music, the images, our shared moments. Remember the shared light.

Sample thoughts of a Cynic

“I have seen the best of you, and the worst of you, and I choose both.”

– Sarah Kay, No Matter the Wreckage

*****

There is something that makes cynics private people. You may think that, as they stare at you blank, unfazed, uninterested, the emptiness of this world – in all its uncomfortable entirety – is staring back at you. The emptiest of emptiness. So dangerously shallow that it competes with the greatest depths of anger and pain.

Cynics are private people, romantics dressed in carefully stitched, hand-made gowns, posing, occasionally smiling, childishly hiding what they perceive as their weakness. Cynics hide children underneath their veils. Their most innate desire is to give, give, give. Until there is no more to give, no more of their insides that they haven’t exposed to the scorching sun. They are born with an inexplicable intuition. A powerful magnet that draws them to internal travelling, soul searching, looking for lost pieces of humanity in tired eyes and worn-out paths. Looking for wild flowers growing on cemented roads, hearts that have long lost their spot on the moon, their guiding star of hope.

Cynics are private people. Withdrawn like the distant moon, but always carrying their soft spot. Strong and independent, torn and vulnerable, bleeding and glowing at the same time.

*****

This is the private part of me so be careful what you touch, be careful what you don’t touch. Be careful which door handles you twist, where you step, where you stop to occupy space. There are sharp pieces here, broken glass, remnants of dreams, unspoken vows, sorrows ever so lightly sweetened by the passage of time. There are dark shadows quivering behind closed doors, collections of seashells and rose petals that I wouldn’t want this hard-nosed world to see. There are images of passengers that briefly muddled the chaos in my mind. You may even find the torn images of another, the broken chains of whatever it was that connected us. But not any more. No, those ‘others’ are not here any more. I have cleaned up their traces that night they didn’t return the call. That morning I laughed about their absence, that night they didn’t see the sharp tears in my smile.

******

Cynics are private people. On the stormiest of nights you might catch them whispering prayers. You might catch them counting stars, drifting into the endlessness of a universe that both humbles and empowers them. You might catch them while they are gone, gone eyes, lost in the humbling chaos of seas, oceans, skies, eternal moons. No doubt you’ll be struck by their courage as they appear to embrace death, no doubt they’ll dismiss their fears of uncertainty. They want you to know it’s okay to fall sometimes. They want you to know they’ll try to catch you if it’s the time of the great free fall. They want you to know that they’ll let you fall if it’s the time for you to learn swimming. They want you to know that they’ve learnt not to just dwell in their darkness but to submit all weapons and enjoy the silence just when it only seems to get darker. As they silently stare at you, they want you to know that there is a silent fire burning their insides. They have dismissed love before, but they have also let it rage – an unstoppable fire, an unstoppable power keeping them sometimes calm, sometimes wired.

******

Cynics are broken people. They have rebuilt themselves before, again and again, piece by piece, they have reassembled. Like old watches that know more or less how to keep the time, they keep functioning. Like old souls, they look for a dark space so they can curl up beside someone and consume all the romance residing in silence.

******

I have found my dark place somewhere where you are too. I have come, like a good old watch carrying a good old soul, ready to share the emptiness, the illusion of time. Ready to let the fire rage in a place where I know that, in the end, none of us will burn (completely).

Cynics are broken people that like to take precautions. I have come to pretend that we will be okay no matter the wreckage. I have come to pretend that we will be okay as we unfold stories of both laughter and forgetting.

I have come to take risks while searching for comfort. I have come so we can find the truth in ourselves, our self in each other.

W. Kandinsky, Composition VII

http://www.theartstory.org/artist-kandinsky-wassily.htm

Telling Stories: On the Fable of Perfection

It’s pouring outside, it’s pouring with troubles. And you are the only part of that picture that’s untouched by the torrential rain, you are the only part of this sinking ship that’s perfectly placed in frame, your body perfectly carved into its model shape, your face unscratched, your hair always fixed in place. When the wind blows against you, against all of your hopes, you stay unmoved, silent, the epitome of unwavering, obedient, lethargic perfection.

You don’t need the perfect hair in the rain. Too many of us walk through cataracts of everyday tragedies with no drop of worry on our faces. Too many of us are insulated from the cold of our own skin, from the snow that finds its way through the cracks in our hearts. Through the gaps of open wounds left unhealed. Some wounds don’t have to heal. There is no amount of antiseptic that can keep the infection of love from spreading. Disappointment is just the metastasis of love sometimes. You can try to cover it all up with pasty white make-up, you can try to paint that faded smile with red lipstick if you like.

But scars are permanent tattoos, and you know it.

They are memories engraved on your guts, piercing right through you when flashbacks strike like lightning.

A lot of things just happen while we are all just watching clocks tick, while we are all just drifting into the chaos of our self-constructed universe. While we are all just trying to make time stop by stopping ourselves from moving forward.

You can perfect your pace if you want to, how fast you take each step in life, how far you are willing to travel each time. And timing, just like time, has its value. You can perfect when to skip through certain stages, how long to mourn for those ghosts you can’t even see, when to stay at someone’s house until the stars are ready to see you both dancing in the moonlight. You can perfect how slowly you sip your tea while you watch your past burn in that perfect fire of momentum. You can teach yourself to pick the right time to sail to new cities, the right sunset to lie by the sea, the right sunrise to climb up the mountains you have to conquer.

But time, time is a different matter. While you are trying to capture all your angles in the mirror, the world keeps turning and you keep turning with it. You can never catch yourself at a moment of stillness. There’s always a cell mutating, a piece of skin that feels softer or drier, there’s always someone invading a part of your mind. Time is always a smarter traveller than you’ll ever be inside your own mind.

Too many of us were taught to grab, choke nothingness in our hands, dress it up, call it perfection, chase it till we drop dead, till we forget that no crown was ever made out of thin air. Too many of us curl back into foetal position, covered in light blue scarves, fragile glass boxes, those stone-cold walls that we think we can melt down when we want to. Everybody thinks they can break free when they have to. But ice turns to stone if you spend too long, trapped, trying to imprison yourself into the body of the perfect adult.

You don’t need the perfect hair in the rain. You don’t need to be the perfect adult. Your smile is perfect, even when you are not smiling, even when your lips are too numb to move, even when your smile is drowning in tears.

I love you because none of us can stop time, because none of us could ever stand alone, the perfect sculpture defying the rules of nature, transcending time. I love you. In the strongest, most enduring way out of all the imperfect ways to love that I just happened to know.

Spoken Word Silence

There’s both darkness and light in our silence.

 

There’s the green of years more innocent than these,

There’s the green of sugar canes,

There’s the crispy, bright sugar love

We so gladly extracted for each other,

There are the endless walks

In the everlasting green

Of an all-natural love,

Of childhood memories passed from

Lips to lips,

Memories like flowers to be shared.

There’s the blue of your smile as I rise,

As I rise into a goddess in your eyes,

As I envision myself rising from

Sea waves,

Sun-kissed and purified, as I envision myself

Cleansed

From the sins of words that leave us victims,

Victims of dialogues in pools of acidic exchange.

 

There’s the grey of your smile,

A smile that turns rough on the edges,

The grey of your eyes as our sunrise-coloured past

Fades into the hazy horizon of adulthood.

The grey of your eyes

Mirroring

The unfazed look of emptiness in my own eyes.

And there’s the dark red

Of a ripening romance both sweet and sour,

Untasted wine

Hastily poured in dirty glasses,

The pungent smell of bitter vinegar.

There’s the dark red of a bond tattooed in our veins,

The dark red of our tongues

As we have our final sip of poison before we

Retreat

Into the agonising silence of confusion.

 

There’s the sound of shattering glass

As I whisper “I love you”,

As I breathe the words,

Gasping for air, grasping your soft skin,

Gasping for the words that can glue

Us back together.

You notice the spillage

As I watch illusions tip over into reality’s space,

In a dreadfully painful,

Slow, deadly slow, motion.

 

And then there’s the yellow,

The sunlight drawing the outline of your face,

The shape of your moving lips in a state of repetition,

The crystal clear sound of “I love you”,

My tears sealing the end of this war,

Your hand now casually stroking my hair,

Our intertwined, synchronised heartbeats

Dancing to each other’s rhythm.

 

And then,

Then there’s just the white of our silence

As we both disappear,

A quiet drift into the private ether of our dreams,

A quiet drift into the whiteness of comfort.

And then there we are,

Walking through winter, both warm,

For a second holding each other’s hands

Brushing off the darkness of our real world,

Brushing off the heavy heartache of sound.

For the next holding each other’s hands

In the unimaginable world of the subconscious,

In a world where love defeats the darkness,

gracefully,

magically,

Always

In silence.