in cold bitter coffee on cold mornings,
when sweaters clung to skin for warmth,
when you should have been tucked away in bed,
nesting between the comforter and pillows
that smelled of her,
in words that sat perched on tongue
(past its expiration date)
lingering like the scent of jasmines and cognacs
from dinners-past but the words tasted bittersweet,
incinerated even, akin to ashen montecristos,
The ubiquitous penchant to refuse sleep have becomes something of a lullaby these past few nights; I can no longer remember if I have kissed the lips of slumber or if I'm waltzing with something akin to inebriated consciousness. I cannot tell you how I ended up here, nor what I was doing five minutes prior to this; everything is but one giant mesh of memories and I cannot distinguish between the genuine and falsities.
I am drowning - in sorrow, in dreams of apologia, in nightmares of catharsis, in the semantics of words that were marinated in the dogmas of suicide...
I can only but ponder the ramifications of conceding to the twisted innate need for recognition of sorts, but the illusions of freedom danced to the rhythms of schizophrenia, and entertained misery and drear and all her companions, but I'm not insane; I am not insane, no drear I am not insane. I only dreamt of normalcy and it was nothing but deranged -
the baby weeps of clemency, drinking from nurturing breasts of morale, but even she too cannot differentiate between the pragmatic ideologies of absolution swirled in the affinities of your absinthe that only invokes compliancy...
the baby wept of clemency.
....(the baby wept)
... coughing fits, it all tasted mephitic as if it were dry lips tasting reparations, no tonight, it was as if it was dry lips drinking the wines of nostalgia; letting loose the coagulated thoughts that were too remnant of asphyxia, heaving the phrases of festering poetry lodged in the bowels of my heart. Perforating the western winds once again - no tonight darling, the persona you so willingly adopt has been revealed a lie. Your lips were stained - not with red, but with the shimmer of lies that you so extravagantly breathed life into, and it was unbecoming on you.
I cannot explain why I wake in the early hours of dawn with tears puncturing through the hardened eyes, with the thought of you lingering through every nook and recess in every foreign corner of my mind. Your name sits perched on my lips waiting to be screamed, and I have trouble differentiating between hallucinations and nightmares at times - I've hallucinated or dreamt of your piercing chartreuse eyes drinking from the wells of agony and anger; disappointment was an overstatement. It was something between the charters of resentment and utter disgust; like your magnum opus was absolved entirely due to a trivial mistake and you victimized yourself until you were nothing but a shadow of your ghost and woke up one night and realized it was not your fault but mine, and were consumed with betrayal and hatred, boiling over with an influx of emotions. Till you're the epitome of animosity, and find yourself demonized with this... with this vengeance that only empowers you to seek reciprocation and knows of no boundaries. But then those amaranth pale lips curl into the remains of a smile, reminding me slightly that even in the midst of this superlatively absurd phenomenon, our happiness is embedded in the past, and you were grateful of how things were once okay between us.
Is it incongruous to state that I love to hallucinate/dream of you more so than the actual you?
I've only caught glimpses of when the sun is nude - her pinkish-red skin that's in desperate need of a tan but I must admit, I've never seen her in glorious xanthous dress far too long - I've been preoccupied with the sight of naked melancholy to pay any attention to her dress. Lately, she's been hiding her nude body under the veil of clouds as if she were coy or self-conscious of the curves of her body.
...the inevitable transition to nothingness that was prolonged when I tried to breathe from the western winds and the poetry she carries with her, but it is not enough. It never is enough...
I was once caught in the supernovae of your words that left me utterly destroyed, but I must admit that once upon a time, I scorned you with words of my supernovae as well, and I can never bring myself to conjure up the words to express how genuinely sorry I am, to even cast doubt in your direction because I cannot face myself for those atrocities, and because sometimes the burden of knowing how much I hurt you, and how awful I was, is too heavy at times, and acts like an anchor that pulls me down to the floors of the ocean of misery.
sometimes I pretend that never happened, because I am swollen from swimming in that ocean, and the urge to just drown in those depths is far too great to even fight at times, hence the naked apology.
but even though I hurt you to a point of no return, your disinterest in me and the cold words that follow (justifiable to every extent, and I can and will never fault you for that) are something like daggers to my heart - something I must endure to atone for my sins, but sweetheart do you not think it's fair to let me know that you'd rather feel my absence than my presence?
but that too, are the words of a hypocrite that should fall on deaf ears - but just say the words, and I'll leave you be.
3:48: 20 AM
I feel transient - in transit from an azimuth that lead me from the stars to the moon; inebriated ramblings but not all these words are transparent, they are nothing more than the fabrication of the machinery that erupts these collections of words.
the boardwalk that lead to the backwaters of your consciousness
smelled of morning coffee that was diluted with sugar that always
stained the corners of the newspaper that sat habitually on the
reclaimed dining table.
In the greater schematic of things - everything is temporary;
your absence will become but mere seconds, when the scale of time
is adjusted to span decades, or wistfully - centuries,
and my pain and suffering will become minute and unheard of in
the cries of agony that echo throughout the corridors of humanity.
I would become a minuscule speck of dust that fluttered on your
winds yearning to waltz with you for a moment longer;
it would all be temporary.
it would all be temporary,
that is catharsis to me.
the bane of my existence,
the life within my breath,
the muse behind these words,
the poetry in pain,
and the pain in poetry.
her name is anodyne
to these quivering lips
that could not draw
the necessary words
to reach aponia
because the thought of losing you
once more, is agathokakological -
breathing you was refreshing at first,
with each inhale growing shorter and shorter,
(you taught me the meaning of Winter)
and with every exhale growing longer and longer;
watching every breath of you linger
was euphoric, only until i choked
on the absence of you.
you were the embodiment of perfection -
and I know I've said it over and over
and over and over and over and over
but you were truly perfect in my eyes;
beautiful too - I dreamt your smile,
though rare but it would ease aches
of any pain, and your petite frame and
a gentle nature to match. I was beyond
infatuated - I recited the words of your
poetry like they were a hymn so that
I could feel your presence here
and there, once again no matter how