Feb. 22nd, 2017

poisonedgrace: (Default)
"Darkling I listen; and, for many a time
I have been half in love with easeful Death,
Call'd him soft names in many a mused rhyme,
To take into the air my quiet breath;
Now more than ever seems it rich to die,
To cease upon the midnight with no pain,
While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad
In such an ecstasy!
Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain—
To thy high requiem become a sod."

~Keats: Ode To A Nightingale

The last two nights, I dreamed of worlds that aren't. Different Mes. Different Yous. Night before last, it was your soft skin, quivering and warm. Piled deep and yearning deeper. Plumbing those depths for all the treasure mapped nerve ending brain connections. Liquid fireworks, exploding across the clouds. Tumbling, endless.

Last night, you came back from a long lapse, dark hair disheveled and clothing worn away at the edges. We, restless spirits, torn between the rules of duty, and the call of freedoms, wild and unkept. Mazes of cramped detail, gilding the bare, open simplicity of hearts beating. Fictional hearts beating in fictional chests. Frictionless fractions from frequently fumbling foibles.

But the world danced for all of us. All of the Mes and all of the Yous. All of the never were. All of the never will. The years slide by, torturous, beautiful, hallowed and profane - we still wait, the worst children, hoping for the world to end. Eternally. Glorious Suffering. For the rest of our days. Forever and ever, Amen.

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