Off With Your Head

The night was so dark I thought I’d lose my way home. But I found the front door and she greeted my tired bones. “Are you ok?” She asked and I couldn’t answer so I kissed her. “What are you thinking about?” Two kisses will have to do tonight. My shoulders are sore when I wake up. I crack and creak all throughout the day, loosening to a heap until I can rest again. Maybe I’m just more wary, hypersensitive to this feeling. But I haven’t felt this, haven’t been this sad since the days when thunderstorms struck twice a week. Its the first in a long time, the storm inside my head, outside my head. “I know just how you feel.” I kiss her just to make it stop. I kiss her so she’ll finally shut up. I’m impossible to relate to. I’m different and they all see it.

ambedo n. a kind of melacholic trance in which you become completely absorbed in vivid sensory details—raindrops skittering down a window, tall trees leaning in the wind, clouds of cream swirling in your coffee—which leads to a dawning awareness of the haunting fragility of life

(via paper-trees)

I wanted to tell you it was all going to be ok. I wanted to say that somewhere far away from here none of this will matter, none of it matters now anyway. I wanted to. But I couldn’t because I don’t know if that’s true. But the puckered dread that slinks over your face scares me. You’re too young to like the dark better than the light. You’re too young to envy the dead. But I do too. I envy the emaciated ribs of followed dreams and the smoke rings of carelessness. One day in France, surrounded by lyrics we cannot understand, we’ll laugh loudly about all of this, our misfortune, mistrust, distrust, discord, because we found skies bluer than your eyes and rooms with secret compartments. They say its our job, my duty to stay here and do as I’m told. But I just want to fall into the sky and never crash back down.

In the beginning they all hated it. Waking up, bodies felt like machines in desperate need of oil. Sand bedded itself in their gears, grinding the rocks into fine dust, carried away each passing twilight. Living life was like getting the wind knocked out of you. Id never had it happen before but now I knew its just like living life. Uncontrollable, we all clawed for sanity but only dirt and despair layered our nail beds. The moon was orange when you loved me and its orange again tonight. Seasons don’t change, we just grow tired of the shattered wineglasses of winter, breaking from the frigid cold. Warm me up, cloak me in dewey grass. We don’t have to breathe too deeply when we accept that we can’t win.

I thought it was odd, the way you looked at me. The way you dulled all my sharp edges, trimming my elbows down to cushions for distress. It was odd but I miss it. And I wrote it all down in a book. The book was written under a leaking bridge, one drip drop for every soulless body that crossed it. I published the book the same year you died. Maybe it was the other way around, you died the same year I was published. The events seemed distinct, no correlation so I forget the details now. They asked me to speak at your funeral but all I could do was choke down the lie that I ever fell out of love with you. I’d catch specific drops from the bridge and jar them to keep. Anyone that looked like they had lost the love of their life, I kept their drop. Maybe two separated soulmates crossed the bridge at different times and their drops were waltzing together, cloaked in a watery future. I wish you had read my book, but perhaps you never needed to read it to know what it was about. It was about you by the way. I’m sorry I bound it in red, I know you like blue bindings better.