No More Mooning Over You.

Dear you,

logic has come in to cool the heat of what i once thought was passion.

and now i see you through different lenses,

tinted with the cool green of thought

with orange and red fanatism fading off the edges.

Still i love your wondrous voice

but now

that love is tempered with the sting of salty doubt,

second guesses of the insinuations behind certain words

some held longer,

some vanishing as the scent of English soap into the wind.

Is this closure?

I don’t think so, but it is no longer what it was.

You were always different, the singular anomaly that was based on physiology rather than what

lay within.

And now i question if i made an error in judgement.

But still.

I’d have to thank you for that lesson you taught me,

for waking up from this haze of  that golden, gilt trimmed symphony

that i once thought your voice was,

now strangely an instrument

that i cannot place.

Hands

Today i felt her before i saw or heard her.

A warm touch, friendly, like an open lily, lain upon my shoulder.

I wonder if she felt the involuntary shiver at that.

She hummed to herself rather nonchalantly, in a strangely content manner.

I was glad that she was happy.

Suddenly writing the note that i was writing seemed like a harder task, for she proved an interesting diversion.

Perhaps it was my habit of observing others. Perhaps not.

The humming stopped, replaced by the irritated rustling of papers.

“Why did they give me this?”

The rarest chords of irritation crept into her mellow, glorious voice.

I half turned, offering her a shrug.

But then a strange thing happened.

She simply lifted her own petite shoulders in another shrug and smiled contentedly, marching off briskly to her destination, humming another tune.

I was bewildered, in all honesty.

But for now, i am happy simply recalling her hands, that simple touch that she bestowed.

For once she acknowledged me before i even noticed her.
For once she showed she gave a darn hoot about my existence.

And that’s all i could ask for now.

Hello and Goodbye (good morning)

every morning, a fleeting smile,

halfhearted waves as feet make familiar

way to silver doors.

willingly opening wide, yawning,

to admit both of them

the beginning of a day’s toil

marked by the brief passing

of a youth’s broken grin.

wishing in voices still tempered by sleep

(steeped in midnight)

a good morning to you.

Why

*For Tosca*

*Thanks to Annie*

She knew i was here; i could feel it in her burning gaze. That gaze that haunted me since i first stared back into her eyes, that refused to acknowledge me in this swarming crowd of the mindless.

How many times do I have to try to tell you
That I’m sorry for the things I’ve done

I’m sorry i never told you how i felt.

I’m sorry, because i might never face up to the fears.

My fears.

But when I start to try to tell you
That’s when you have to tell me
Hey, this kind of trouble’s only just begun

But of course. Who could condone it? I do not want to hurt you; do not want you to have to endure scandal, something that must, surely, be so new to the both of us that the hurt we would both feel could kill us.

And perhaps it would.

I tell myself too many times
Why don’t you ever learn to keep your big mouth shut
That’s why it hurts so bad to hear the words
That keep on falling from your mouth

I have not heard your words yet, for you are still kept in the dark, stranger to my feelings; just as i am. But i know you.

(or at least, i think i do.)

You wouldn’t want to hurt me, would you?

Falling from your mouth
Falling from your mouth
Tell me…
Why
Why

Why? I could ask you that question myself. I don’t know. The heart is a strange thing to fathom, dark recesses hidden within keeping secrets from the light.

I may be mad
I may be blind
I may be viciously unkind
But I can still read what you’re thinking
And I’ve heard it said too many times
That you’d be better off
Besides…

I know you cannot take it. You’d be better off if i don’t tell you. This insidious feeling, (born of madness, perhaps?) that wraps itself around hearts, comforting, yet, after a while, you fall from grace. Strangled by a strange love so true yet one that must remain hidden.

Why can’t you see this boat is sinking
Let’s go down to the water’s edge
And we can cast away those doubts
Some things are better left unsaid

But they still turn me inside out
Turning inside out turning inside out

Half a year has come and gone. I’ve watched you, constantly, as much as i could, telling myself you were to be left for fond goodbyes and bittersweet smiles of what was not to be.

I still think of what you might do, you know.

What you might do if i told you.

Tell me…
Why
Tell me…
Why
This is the book I never read
These are the words I never said
This is the path I’ll never tread
These are the dreams I’ll dream instead
This is the joy that’s seldom spread
These are the tears…
The tears we shed
This is the fear
This is the dread
These are the contents of my head
And these are the years that we have spent
And this is what they represent
And this is how I feel
Do you know how I feel?
‘Cause I don’t think you know how I feel
I don’t think you know what I feel
I don’t think you know what I feel
You don’t know what I feel

You shall never know how i feel.

You shall never, for no matter how many whys and hows are asked, i will remain silent.

Carrying my burdened heart to death itself.

(how you torment me.)

Tell me, why?

Midsummer Lunacy

It is humid, fittingly, as Midsummer should be. The players have retired for the night, but i linger, hoping to catch a dear friend before the night draws to a true close and fairies claim the darkness.

A flash of white; a tinge of green.

She is here.

About to depart, i see her for the first time in a long time; just as i had thought her lost to the maw of time and the open prison of my heart, she comes back into my life. I took a few hesitant steps toward her, catching her eye once, twice. There is an uncertain quavering note held between us, both unsure of what to do. Her lips quirk upward in a slight smile, as though she’s not sure if she has my gaze or not. The dark liquid fire of her kind gaze shines in the hazy candlelight, more mischievious yet as mature as ever.

It is i who glances away first, distracted by a nymph running past, gauzy scarves fluttering in the mild midsummer wind. In a hurry i turn back to her, but she is gone, the crystalline moment, delicate like a spider’s cobweb newly spun, shattered, as she turns and walks away.

Sighing, bittersweet over something i thought was not to be, i move with cautious steps, apprehensive of ambush from sprightly spirits merry from the night’s entertainment. Passing through arches of fairy lit tendrils, the whisper of promise seemed to brush me, night zephyr snaking its way to tousle my hair.

Out of nowhere i see her again; departing, though not in her customary hurry. I call out to her, over the slight din; she pauses, and turns, having heard my voice.

I push through laughing sprites and stop before her, leaning down slightly to look into her eyes.

“Hi”

“Hello”

“How’ve you been?”

“Good. You?”

I hesitated. The answer was not a good one. Was i to tell her of the darkness i had plunged through, fear seeping through cracks of a soul scared of light?

No, it was not the time.

(then when will you show her how you really feel, you coward? how long can you hide amongst cringing shadows?)

I could not meet her eyes. She smiled, sincere, as always, and i hated myself even more for being a coward, for the impulse to leap at her, to flay my heart open for her to see, to tell her how i felt, pulsed stronger than it ever had.

(Maybe next Midsummer)

And so i told her of the superficial scars i had collected over the week, how my body was nearly broken, my mind close behind.

Was she as simple, as sincere as she seemed? For she looked me straight in the eye, and whispered with conviction words of encouragement. That enough was motivation enough for me to continue on, because she had said so. And i secretly thank her for it, for under everything, the polished veneer i project, i am naught but a coward, an abomination unwilling to face up to challenge, an unabashed hedonist.

She was one more step out of my darkness.

Out of dark madness, and into Midsummer Lunacy we stepped, together.

Maybe next midsummer.

Tenderness, bittersweet.

I had a painfully sweet, tender dream last night. I dreamt of her, in surreal reality; somehow she was overcome by grief, because of someone’s death, if i recall; perhaps her mother’s?

By some trick of fate or other, we ended up in a car, in the backseat; the destination we were headed to was unknown, eternal. As i spoke words of condolences, of reassurance, i saw the softer side of her; she simply gazed at me with her gray-black gaze, tears glimmering anew. As though in life, my dream self had longed to reach out to wipe them away, to comfort her even more.

And then she shocked me, placing her head on my shoulder and leaning closer to me. It seemed a strangely fine fit, her dark mane of hair falling softly to obscure her face, momentarily. Her warmth leaned into me, pressing into me as though the dream were real., Silence passed for a delicate, infinite moment, and i turned my head to lightly, tenderly place a kiss upon her forehead; it went unnoticed, for she was, as ever, deep in thought. Her hair smelled of lavender, laced lightly with chords of lemongrass. Undercurrents of a scent that simply could belong to none other tinged the gratifying combination, reviving me simply by breathing. My arm wound around her shoulders, and i rubbed her arm in another sign of physical support. It was funny, this reversal of roles. She was supposed to be the strong one, the one that was supposed to be there for anyone who needed her. Yet here, in my dream , i was the one that was her crutch, her source of comfort.

Of course, all this could only happen in one place, a domain so unbidden to others, so forbidden in its intense languages of love; All i had were tender, bittersweet dreams to bear me through the earliest stages of heartbreak, of what could never be.

Tenderness, bittersweet; those are what sweet dreams mean to me.

Mia Gelosa di Tosca

So went the aria; yet you are contrary to it. You bear no guile, no envy. I do know know the obect of your affection, but i have never seen you jealous. I am no Cavaradossi; though i would have painted you in all your glory if i could. All i can offer you are potraits of words, crafted by notes played on taut heartstrings. It strikes me time and again how ironic your namesake is; for you possess none of the character’s vain qualities, only her glorious, resplendent and siren voice. No doubt your beauty matches hers as well; yet somehow instead of the proud crimson she is, you are a calmer, peacock blue. A tranquil Tosca; one that possesses the grace and elegance of the character, all the while carrying with you a quiet dignity. You could have been named otherwise, but i would have it no other way. You are Tosca.

My Tosca.

Touch

I can still feel the vague  brush of her knuckes upon mine as we passed each other in the corridor. Both of us recoiled; for it was expected. After all, is that not how we have programmed our bodies to work? To pull back from something seen as taboo, seen as something forbidden.

But then again, it could simply be because it was her that i bumped into; the one i felt so uncertain about, the one that held sway over my thoughts every waking moment.

It was funny then, how she simply graced me with a smile, apology tugging the corners of her lips upward. A soft, subtle, simultaneous “sorry”; the quick withdrawal of a hand; and she was gone, quick as a summer breeze.

I pretended not to be affected by it, but really, that small brush affected me as she had never done before. Somehow it spoke of what could never be, the physical contact that could reassure unlike any other. Just a simple, heartfelt embrace; perhaps even a gentle squeeze of the shoulder. Those mere gestrues would have revived my broken soul, thirsty for affection after the endless torment that is a home.

But now, as i gaze at where she disappeared around the corner, i feel my heartstrings being pulled taught. I did not know what to feel, and though i hated this dilema i was in, i suppose i would not have it any other way. No, she would serve to be the object of my affection, even though it must be from afar. All i can do is observe her from the distance, hiding smiles that spring to my lips, unbidden.

Perhaps one day the nature of our relationship will change; for we do share a common love of a language. Perhaps then, friendship will blossom out of this fragility. Perhaps then, we will be able to hold a legit conversation over tea, spinning hours away on a lazy afternoon.

Perhaps then, i will finally be at peace with my heart.

Voice

I can get lost in it, that mellow, golden, honey-dipped voice. My heart has been shattered, free-falling and cartwheeling after the last heartbreak. It continues on its doomed trajectory, shards spiraling downward to become dust.

But that voice. It is like Ambrosia, the food of the gods. It empowers me, makes me feel as though i can do anything and everything. It forms an iridescent net beneath the shards, barely there yet reassuring like any other. It cradles my soul, bruised and battered and broken, tucked safely in the warm mellowness of it. It contains within both the bemusement and the key that can undo everything yet make everything perfect again. It’s a voice that tells you every thing’s alright, and whatever comes, darling, you’ll take it head on.

It seems to emanate from deep within her, befitting its throaty quality. Both quiet yet commanding. It pierces me despite its mellowness, like a lance shrouded in mist. Somehow it woke me up. From what slumber, i do not know. What i know is that now that I’m awake, the voice has become my drug, and i crave to hear it, for it both liberates and grounds.

As her voice was mysterious and rich, so were her words. They were simple and heartfelt, with such honesty it was almost brutal. Bittersweet songs played upon my taut heartstrings, anxieties allayed and worries dismissed.

I do not know how it stole into me; all i recall was its velvety smoothness, seductively coaxing its way to my soul, a sumptuous drop of pure, warm gold. It traced its way slowly down through the cracks i desperately tried to hide; slid so silently into the gaps i needed to fill; embraced me so tightly that i never knew what hit me.

It made me realise that i had closed my heart to everything else; made me realise that love was infinite. Above all, it made me see the tenderness and good in everything, the goodness of souls despite their dark shadings.

All that, through one voice. It could only belong to one.