Ramblings

I died today. In a bed, alone, watching my ceiling, white. No blue sky, or a blanket of stars. No dreamy clouds or bright sunshine. Just a white ceiling. Comfortable, slowly slipping away. Like the tearing of a shroud from a rose bush, tangled up in the thorns. A trickle of blood weaving down the stem, dancing around, feeding the roots, the petals shine more red than before. A white stained by love, and yet loving from here alone. Seeing you against the white canvas I look up to, without raising a brush, I paint you with my eyes, against what I have left. No strength at all, but my mind still enough, to paint you in the last, that my final memories, should be a photograph of longing.

They will scrub it clean long before you see. All the better, for today we fear love in all its forms. Play the game, lust, we all long for companionship, all fear being by alone, but not for the sake of love. Lying with virgins I am unable to touch, I keep looking your way, and find my soul tangled in your long black hairs. A mad man, let madness seep in, what sanity do lovers need? Drink of each other, I’ll pour my soul into your vessel, inside you we swim as one. I leave myself behind, though I have yet to know you; the seeds of love are carried by the bees of song. I see my words nestle between your petals, and taste your bud when I close my eyes. Such a feeling it is to love. Sitting here watching the sun sheathed by the clouds of separation, yet lightening won’t strike. What would it feel like to touch my love, despite myself, beside myself, who can I be but myself?