“It was such a vivid dream, so real I awoke to the sweetness of honey and stayed in bed for hours remembering each flavor- savoring each letter that danced between us like we use to dance. Failing in bravery you struck me down with soft sounds pulling me unsteadily to your mouth and we kissed, conversing in our own way; without words, without sight, we didn’t need eyes to see every fiber brushing reminders as we discovered ourselves. As distant stars clashed we rode stellar paths to my heart where birthed a hunger that would never leave satisfied- you gave me an appetite, when we first leaned on each other.”
I am so easily tricked into running madly with these thoughts. It feels so amazing to write of that love until my flow falters, as it oft does, and I reflect on the reality of my situation. I am without my great translator, I stutter in my thoughts and in my steps as to where and what I believe are fathomable. My rudder is twisted with grief- I am navigating a spherical maze, clawing at the walls every fucking second in an attempt to slow this from spiraling out of control. I have woken up every day with this dream painting something that right now cannot be. It is my hardest battle to get up in the morning. I must deny myself this tentative grasp my heart holds in order to not spend another day there, with the blinds drawn, hiding from a world that is so much more deserving of my time.
So I am willing it done. I rip myself away from this vestige of romanticism and force my legs on a cycle. At least if my mind will peddle in pointless circles, my body can lead by example. It takes me 50 miles a day to run away from what I awaken too each morning: a phantasmal weight on the other side of the bed I can never bring myself to sleeping on, a sweetness in my mouth that throbs with each heartbeat. I would rather burn from my lungs and run until my sweat turns to salt flats rimming my eyes and scratching my cheeks, than to be tricked and taunted by a man flooded with too many thoughts to have enough sense to remain steadfast in his beliefs.
I am a Lover, a Tauren, a Poet.
A composition of fictional heroes and out dated ideals that only make sense when there are dragons breathing fire, when she is tied down and screaming your name and you brave incineration itself to free her from destruction….
But I suppose then this is exactly what I am doing. The only problem is, there is an animal inside that doesn’t seem to fond of the prospect of death. He is the trickster that I must battle, He is the dragon with midnight wings taunting and laughing with the grief he sings.
You are worth it. Every god damn minute of it.
(I’m sorry this kind of ended abruptly, but I need to get the hell out of this room.)