lift me up, my soul's so hollow (you can make me scream eternally.)
In the early morning I am completely vulnerable, having just wakened from sleep; I am tender, unprepared, unfocused.
An easy target for the memories, wide open to receive in full what the shock keeps me from feeling later.
So it is , as the sky sprawls in sleepy pale rose like babies' mouths and the blue of the questioner, that I am broken open in gaping segments, pulled away one after another in an onslaught like Hitler's armies would have creamed their uniforms to see.
Picture the coast of my native state, soft and crumbling quietly on its own- now aided by the corrosive catalyst that is hurricane, one after another, ripping, tearing, clawing like a pissed-off woman at the very softest of its lands, the tenderest of earth and trees.
So it is, inside me somewhere, in the vast land and ocean that make up myself; I am become host to every shape and form of hurricane and storm. A battered shelter.
It is cold this morning. It seeps through my turtleneck, through my white shirt, into my sleepy sensitive skin. Awakening memories as it goes, it undulates its way toward my winterheart, whispers to me: Autumn comes.
And once I felt joy to think of it, of my favorite season.
but it was his favorite season too.
Autumn's advent means, too, that only months remain until my birthday, until Christmas, until New Year's.
He had plans for my birthday , he told me once. He would say nothing more, and for days after I heard those words I writhed in a delicious torment of anticipation wondering what surprise awaited me months and months in the future.
No more.
The plans I had made for our first Christmas- no more.
New Year's spent watching fireworks an hour behind with him- no more.
Derribro told me to remember the good times.
Devinbro just held me tight.
Nothing seems to ease the spreading empty ache in me.
I miss him more with every song.
The higher I climb in the dark, the longer I fall without him, until even the pleasure cries out for his presence to sharpen it into stinging relief the way only he could- I have not screamed once the way he made me scream.
I smell your skin on the empty pillow next to mine
you have only been gone ten days, but already I'm wasting away*
Every overblown bit of tripe ever written about broken hearts is suddenly my mantra.
(except that "bleeding love" shit. I'm not bleeding, this is a subdural hematoma on the walls of myself that can't break, a great long ridged blossoming nonbruise un-wound.)
The clouds above me have turned white, spreading unraveling ice crystals; will snow forever be a distant memory?
I can't accept that you're gone when the cold feels so good on my stiffening hands.
*Incubus, I Miss You
An easy target for the memories, wide open to receive in full what the shock keeps me from feeling later.
So it is , as the sky sprawls in sleepy pale rose like babies' mouths and the blue of the questioner, that I am broken open in gaping segments, pulled away one after another in an onslaught like Hitler's armies would have creamed their uniforms to see.
Picture the coast of my native state, soft and crumbling quietly on its own- now aided by the corrosive catalyst that is hurricane, one after another, ripping, tearing, clawing like a pissed-off woman at the very softest of its lands, the tenderest of earth and trees.
So it is, inside me somewhere, in the vast land and ocean that make up myself; I am become host to every shape and form of hurricane and storm. A battered shelter.
It is cold this morning. It seeps through my turtleneck, through my white shirt, into my sleepy sensitive skin. Awakening memories as it goes, it undulates its way toward my winterheart, whispers to me: Autumn comes.
And once I felt joy to think of it, of my favorite season.
but it was his favorite season too.
Autumn's advent means, too, that only months remain until my birthday, until Christmas, until New Year's.
He had plans for my birthday , he told me once. He would say nothing more, and for days after I heard those words I writhed in a delicious torment of anticipation wondering what surprise awaited me months and months in the future.
No more.
The plans I had made for our first Christmas- no more.
New Year's spent watching fireworks an hour behind with him- no more.
Derribro told me to remember the good times.
Devinbro just held me tight.
Nothing seems to ease the spreading empty ache in me.
I miss him more with every song.
The higher I climb in the dark, the longer I fall without him, until even the pleasure cries out for his presence to sharpen it into stinging relief the way only he could- I have not screamed once the way he made me scream.
I smell your skin on the empty pillow next to mine
you have only been gone ten days, but already I'm wasting away*
Every overblown bit of tripe ever written about broken hearts is suddenly my mantra.
(except that "bleeding love" shit. I'm not bleeding, this is a subdural hematoma on the walls of myself that can't break, a great long ridged blossoming nonbruise un-wound.)
The clouds above me have turned white, spreading unraveling ice crystals; will snow forever be a distant memory?
I can't accept that you're gone when the cold feels so good on my stiffening hands.
*Incubus, I Miss You