We break bread with ogres, caretaking the promises of this magic bean deal. Smell the blood. Grind the bones. Breathe the colour of rust. I want to believe in dragons, in golden harps, golden eggs, golden knights. My ribbons and bows cut and curled on the edge of a tamed sword. I want to stay in endless skies, endless dreams, endless climbs, when even the memory of decent is lost, rotted away with the worm filled witches. I want to be wrong on those rare, silent nights, when I remember the sound of bells, tolling in the village below.
Tears turn to ice in the might have been castles of this fairy tale. I have seen the light of dead stars, sharp and splintered out across the inside of my eyelids. And still I long for the sweet warmth of boiling.
I asked you once why we dream of Once Upon a Time from the scalding depths of this black cauldron. And you smiled like I was a child and told me that coming up for air is always harder than drowning.
You who are wild with soliloquies, bring me the silence of your dead. See, my doubt snakes through the contours of this inimical land. Where are the pacified? The litter of this city? Carbon in moonlight, the song that won’t sing rips out my throat. Sometimes I dream that I am born under the flow of continents, entombed in citadels where land and sky fold with the relics of my mind. And when I wake, when I wake…
All I want is oblivion.
Pin me to the sun, I begged you once. And you took me to your sky. You showed me eternity burning, blown autumn with the cinders of perdition.
In the hours when you sleep, I lie awake. The loss of you still wrapped around me in blankets. I am scattered, the edges of my mind blurred and rubbed out. The parade of me called off. Switched off. Temper the sound of my breath. My heart beat. I dream of ghosts, fevered and recycled demons, clawing Marley at my door. Flicking channels, I seek out my own fear in cinematic nightmares. Another autopsy of death drawn scarlet on snow. Another scream of innocence, muted down to 4am. I am cold. Disenchanted by the mechanics of terror. I hold a spyglass to catch the light of dead stars, but that smoke in soft curls still burns. When you sleep. Sometimes, I miss your silence more than your words.
And all that is left of me is the scent of roses, on your skin.
Your skin washed in shadows, I watch your breath. Your body warm with my dreaming. The scent of you laid out across this unmade land. I taste you in my blood and I am bound crimson with the ribbons of this uncharted. This place of dragons, where I watch your lips trace the outline I have torn apart in my fury. And we are found, lost, broken on the riptide of that familiar storm. I have sold the compass of my mind. Watched you floundered on the reef of corporal bones. Sworn oath to the dread sands. Taken harbour where you would cut us adrift. My hands tied to the mast of another haunted galleon. You murmur words I cannot feel. You map out ragged coastlines, oil on canvas. You fly bright with the standards of this new land. You breathe. I watch your breath. And draw my world in pencil.
I keep your photograph face down. Wandering my mind in fairy tale. No story book. No rewind in the soft, silk of your Disney blue. I don’t remember you. The curl of your fingers. Your feet lost in shared blankets. The trail of you overgrown, shadowed in that glare of second hand ghosts. I don’t remember you. And I smile with the sweetness of you. The beauty of your face. The one I see, there in the unadorned. There with your blue. Face down. The mist of you in my arms until I fail with the weight. That isn’t there. Just your blue. And even the sky is wrong with it. I don’t remember you. What it’s like to hold you. Just a photograph. Face down. Reminds me that I don’t remember you. But I do remember the blue. Of your eyes. And if I could ask you, would you smile your photograph and whisper that blue, was enough?