I have met solitude where sun rays kiss the grass. I have sandwiched myself between that rising of the sun and have found myself overshadowed, still, by the dusk. I have gotten used to this forlorn feeling as a bird is used to a song, its feet to the branch of a tree, its heart enclosed within its feathers, making melodies for all, but none too long to last.
I have found that in my heart lies yet another bird beating about. Here, there is a song as well that –plays ceaselessly from e to D to E to d. Resting, covered under the eventide sheets lay intimate conversations within the radius of God’s heart -that purest of reds in the diamond mines of which only he and I know.
I flap my wings and reverb; I am the music and the bird. I am the breaking of hearts in cold weather, fully forlorn under Father’s thumb. The world is a broiling pot of dreams never forgotten and the reek of the carrion of regrets. Once, a few regrets ago, I threw my heart into the steaming stew and joined in the shift to stir the pot of the misery that leeringly eyes a lover’s bouncing heart. I faced the mountain and down fell my knees – that this bird in a cage – should fly out of my chest and find its mate.
Before I had mailed my heart in the envelope of dreams to the man I loved, I knew that life could not possibly be darker than bearing it out without tasting the sweetness of love’s embrace. For this mate that I cried – kissing the feet of the mountain and shooting wishes to the stars – a blackened spot begun to creep over the surface of my shadowy heart, left barely intact by the light that once illuminated all its parts.
I ate my bread, and drunk the Cabernet on evenings too slow with skin too chapped – spotting a faultline a day on my eyes and knees- playing my part as a tree in a play. Somewhere in the mist of the rising air lay the potential where I could finally say that life is fair. However, when grey was my hair, I plopped my feet on the edge of the world and looked out upon the space where love was meant to be my fate – where it held and released me like a child with its toy.
The twinkle of a star, like the ringing of a distant bell, fails not as a teacher and torturer; to paint a picture of history and possible romance. When I look upon the singing stars, the Polaris star tugs at my heart like a dog at the ends of passions’ hem. I understand why I so readily set my heart upon the lovers pyre and why this ringing key of naivety still plays in the heart of my hearts.
Why explain it if I can’t?
Any man that can capture love elucidates only his part, answering only his question as the next does his or hers.
Sometimes my stare is blank. Sometimes my heart is sunk. Sometimes I feel I can’t manage this heart. I have no story to tell you about love grand or small if it could take form. I have no words to describe love.
Where there is a heart, there is love, Beating or still, was or is, Love is, was and will continue to Be. Where there is a heart, There you’ll find me Chasing after the Sun.
I feel. I feel. I feel it all. Everything roaring. An upheaval. Fingers weak. Evaporating tears. My heart. My broken and breaking heart. So soft. So open. Healing. Believing. Life is earnest. Believe it.
Magic sleeps between the smile of a dancing reflection, the love that keeps hope alive.
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