forgive me that i’m not here.
because really through all these years i’ve been an aquarelle tear drawing a colorful blur of landscapes ever lost to infinite sky. that inside i constantly threw myself against the wall unable to melt the mind into the milk of amnesia.
thinking that cigarettes burn the coldest aches i smoked all days and nights long, but the ashen taste only makes an impossible reverie brighter..
now.. from behind deadly clouds acid rain falls on ancient books in my unending delirium of candles for him..shining in places they should or shouldn’t be..including the altar of voyaging leaves lost too far from the garden where fireflies still dance..where he once breathed.
and then there was an explosion of slow fire against broken ribs..the view of bleeding doves devoured by furious crows..the gaze of agonizing sky made of heated iron…
i can pretend that i can still shelter the aroma of roses and feel the awakening of springs that come. i can pretend i forgot.. and turn into a queen of pretension living in the world of scarlet sheets and softly shimmering lanterns..
but it would be even worse.
that i’m not strong enough to be strong and free.