Moments before I peel off my skin and sing the dirge of destruction to put myself to sleep, I wonder how you carry your little routine. How your fingers would hold that morning cup of coffee or in which pattern you brush your teeth. The smell of your linen shirt, threads tracing stories from your skin, stories that vanish in daylight and the parched skin breaking in the absence of a touch. Bleeding fingers playing with the strings each night. Blood, rhythm and memories. How you consume the murk and turn into a shadow to dream; a gorgeous stiff corpse. A tipsy angel of chaos.
I fall for the details I paint you with, the details I'd never know if real.
There isn't a definite feeling to describe it, to describe you. I'm merely aware of your existence, maybe just a fragment of my imagination to remember the feeling of love.
The times I kiss the lonely portrait and lick all acrylics dripping, my mind and flesh melting into a gruesome silhouette. A myth of forgotten lore. I wonder what makes you different why don't you ever crave connections, perhaps you never lacked any. A thought of you is like a parasite, a sin made in wine sozzle. Lucid dream of apocalypse during a psychidelic trip to paradise. My heavenly muse or a devil in disguise.
Absurd romanticism blind my irises colliding with my cynical and stoic self yet I'm here hopeless, searching for love in cold nights and hope in unsaid goodbyes. What if I say I've never been loved, the deepest vulnerable corner of my soul has never been explored; a barren corner where chaos prevails, a womb of suffocating smoke and a damaged heart of derise. The echoes of unloved voices trapping your fragment on that corner, only if you ever could hear.
Days pass by, months, years but you never come back. Did you leave with the soft wind or still visit as a sweet breeze on a summer afternoon. A lost melody, the smell of old linen shirt; an invisible anecdote on a crisp blank page. Maybe I'd find you someday in tears of lonely nights, on the cold side of a pillow, the creamy side of a cookie, in silly giggles. I've lost the fragment, you're gone painting all your secrets on my skin, your sins in my eyes, taking our memories to your grave leaving no trials.
I still wonder how you refute all my morals yet seemed righteous everytime. The prophet of lies, my moon child.
The more I understand humans the more inhumane I become. This misanthropy contrasts with the blood soaked eyes I see at the streets, tiny hands bargaining for a living mocking an appearance; an act of distress, wicked con artist, victim of misfortune or just a Human being. Some are smart enough to read the mockery while others share a penny to escape purgatory. I do none, I absorb their emotions. Slowly let it grow inside me. I peel off my skin, sing the dirge of destruction and fade away.