Private to Deirdrediva_myronAugust 12 2006, 15:24:21 UTC
Inside the ornate grove, I heard, is a place where the C note lies. It chimes 'round and 'round, until nestling softly on your neck, inside your neckerchief made of gauze.
Private to Deirdre - added a few minutes laterdiva_myronAugust 12 2006, 15:36:09 UTC
Can you tell me why?
Why?
I like the sound of your voice. It is melodic. And your name. It is beautiful. You are a sorrowful wanderer.
Should I strike it all out?
Can you come to write poetry with me? Carve candles? Count the stars?
Convey the meaning of-- my cello. We can play. My house is far too big. I wander around, and when I am happy - only the trees see that.
We can build sand castles. Whenever you come. Do you like bergamot tea? Colour red? Silence? Violins? Asphalt-- do you like asphalt? When it just rained and everything is so clean you don't want to make the first step, because it will stain the road. And everyone can trace you back. And the setting sun admonishes you for ruining the beauty, but it's kind, you know, it's always kind - and it lets you go and reach the end.
Private to..Myron. ((OOC: the first response should be private as well))deirdre_ivyAugust 12 2006, 18:06:33 UTC
No. I cannot tell myself why.
She has never been there at all. The veil parts because it wishes to reveal something more than emptiness, something more than the cool and perfect vessel it appears. Does it?
I..melodic? You may be the only person that hears some discernible melody in my dark verbatims.
No. Please..no. Leave it be.
I do not know. But...I can listen. I can offer that much.
Yes. I will come. Yes. Yes. Yes to silence. Yes to Violins. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Oh dear. I knew self-consciousness would kick in sooner or later. What a girlish weakness. Strike out strike out.
I do. To everything. I drink bergamot in the evenings when the sky matches the liquid, and I curl up alone to listen to the laboring of the strings.
You've forgotten to mention the smell. The rain lingering in the air and slicking the asphalt and everything new and you can taste the clean slate. Do you know the essentiality of bare feet?
Private to Deirdrediva_myronAugust 13 2006, 04:19:14 UTC
She'll be carried there on a silver boat of the sleeping psychopomp. He'll not know we'd sneaked in there because we'd feed him the sleeping potion. And then swim back.
Dark? How can you call yourself dark when light is all I see? Aurora Borealis - you.
A bow is like a knife, it cuts through the ripples of music, eliciting the cry, reserved and tortured. But it can laugh too. And it can whisper. Sing. Romance.
We will curl up together in a juxtaposition of the darkly shimmer and the rusty key. There is one hanging from the oaken tree outside the window of my library.
As in the connection? The unveiling, vulnerable - and the healing because there is only one thing. The clarity of the road and the smell, made completely you.
She is me. Am I capable of rescuing myself? Our browned bodies would be wrapped in the deep cerulean and indigo silver of the heavy current, amorphous and shifting...but never dropping us, always supporting and buoying. We would wash up, spent, on that abandoned secret shore just beyond the iris fields. We would listen to the stars burning and the water running and we would drift into sleep on the white sand with the jasmine and the fireflies, our skin kissed dry with the last warm summer breeze.
Aurora? Really--noYou may elicit inexplicable poetry, but I still have yet to feel anything but nuanced dark.
Will we? Can we? Such a thing is not possible. What does it open?
The necessity of such--the visceral warm and cold and your skin and everything is, yes, one thing. And every inhalation shocks and soothes me open, clean and full of solitude. I can taste the dripping dew-covered evergreens miles away, and feel the earth pause in its orbit to make the whole of all new again. We should all be so lucky. I should stand in
( ... )
The dark is swirled with warm and cool; it is infused with clarity and soaked in rum.
--is the smile for her? She is not there.
simply
swathed
in nothingness. A shadow's veil parts for the laughter and the touch.
Is that an invitation?
Is that an invitation?
Oh gods, I can't believe my pen meets paper. Why is it audible?
Since when does anyone else get to read these? Since when does my mind open like a crocus to the night?
Reply
And so I say-- let's create a tempest.
Yes.
Reply
Why?
I like the sound of your voice. It is melodic. And your name. It is beautiful. You are a sorrowful wanderer.
Should I strike it all out?
Can you come to write poetry with me? Carve candles? Count the stars?
Convey the meaning of-- my cello. We can play. My house is far too big. I wander around, and when I am happy - only the trees see that.
We can build sand castles. Whenever you come. Do you like bergamot tea? Colour red? Silence? Violins? Asphalt-- do you like asphalt? When it just rained and everything is so clean you don't want to make the first step, because it will stain the road. And everyone can trace you back. And the setting sun admonishes you for ruining the beauty, but it's kind, you know, it's always kind - and it lets you go and reach the end.
Do you?
Reply
She has never been there at all. The veil parts because it wishes to reveal something more than emptiness, something more than the cool and perfect vessel it appears. Does it?
I..melodic? You may be the only person that hears some discernible melody in my dark verbatims.
No. Please..no. Leave it be.
I do not know. But...I can listen. I can offer that much.
Yes. I will come. Yes. Yes. Yes to silence. Yes to Violins. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Oh dear. I knew self-consciousness would kick in sooner or later. What a girlish weakness. Strike out strike out.
I do. To everything. I drink bergamot in the evenings when the sky matches the liquid, and I curl up alone to listen to the laboring of the strings.
You've forgotten to mention the smell. The rain lingering in the air and slicking the asphalt and everything new and you can taste the clean slate. Do you know the essentiality of bare feet?
Reply
Dark? How can you call yourself dark when light is all I see? Aurora Borealis - you.
A bow is like a knife, it cuts through the ripples of music, eliciting the cry, reserved and tortured. But it can laugh too. And it can whisper. Sing. Romance.
We will curl up together in a juxtaposition of the darkly shimmer and the rusty key. There is one hanging from the oaken tree outside the window of my library.
As in the connection? The unveiling, vulnerable - and the healing because there is only one thing. The clarity of the road and the smell, made completely you.
Reply
Aurora? Really--noYou may elicit inexplicable poetry, but I still have yet to feel anything but nuanced dark.
Will we? Can we? Such a thing is not possible. What does it open?
The necessity of such--the visceral warm and cold and your skin and everything is, yes, one thing. And every inhalation shocks and soothes me open, clean and full of solitude. I can taste the dripping dew-covered evergreens miles away, and feel the earth pause in its orbit to make the whole of all new again. We should all be so lucky. I should stand in ( ... )
Reply
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