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I cannot tell you why I feel at home in my aloneness as i, an un-thing gaze from afar-- a lowly spector--

Why I seek distance away from all the others while you,clever boy, you shine so bright it burns those who linger close by.

You envelope them, entrap them with a few words or with a knowing sigh of endearment.


and for this I both hate and adore you dearly.

I mourn the rise and fall of your chest already, the beat of your heart





Alas, you are my only saviour

and you will bleed.

A sovereign gone and dead.

“Why do you pity them?

Are you not fascinated? Infatuated, with the living?


Humans are breathing saviors that know not where they walk with calloused feet and for this I envy them--

Their innocence, ignorance, their self-awareness despite the ecosystem that collapses and rebuilds around them.
The

and yet you call them sheep, scum, unworthy of adoration. But I rail! You know not of the love of the breathing.


They possess life and light.


and you are empty.”

COMMENTS

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LadyAtanasya
02:59 Aug 24 2021

Ah yes, fasination

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POST COMMENT

I forget the way new age music can make you feel.

Just as young when I first put bow to strings on the cello in the common hall in Matre; back then the tongue was unusual, sultry.

Like the sound waves that bounced off the strings and echoed down the halls-- I still remember how my bare feet felt against the marble hallways.


This song makes me think of things that will never be

There are moments of passing that I find the will to make a sigh for you.

The macanics of a human sigh intrigue me, always, the heave of breast bone and flutter of lashes-- how romanic they are, I think, more so than us.

For they love so quickly and hurt for so long. Like wounded little mammals that mutter sweet nothings in birdspeak.


I see the halo of gold when you float through the crowd, while I muse the topic of sighs. You have a lost look in your eyes, scanning faces,movement. Always thinking and worrying. I wonder if you breathe even less than me these days.

There are moments of passing that I find the will to make a sigh for you.

The mechanics of a human sigh intrigue me, always, the heave of breast bone and flutter of lashes-- how romanic they are, I think, more so than us.

For they love so quickly and hurt for so long. Like wounded little mammals that mutter sweet nothings in birdspeak.


I see the halo of gold when you float through the crowd, while I muse the topic of sighs. You have a lost look in your eyes, scanning faces,movement. Always thinking and worrying. I wonder if you breathe even less than me these days.

As far as parties go, I guess I was a bore. But I enjoyed watching you get high with the other 20 somethings in front of the cemetery.

Your hair blended well with the Spanish moss that hung from the trees. I couldn't look away...


Your lips have an uncertainty to them when you're unsure of what you should do next; if I had normal feelings of lust, I think I'd want to bite them- maybe gently at first, to soothe your anxious soul.

" another hit?" You only nodded, took the joint, inhaled, stopped; your sad blues made contact with me. You exhaled then, letting the smoke slip into your nostrils.


I left when you lifted your fingers, beckoning me.

I can smell the god-complex in your sweat, I can see it by the way you tilt your head at people, fawning over your beggars smile-- coy, untrustworthy-- you call yourself an alpha, though you are not even worthy to be the snake in the grass or the earth neath its belly.


You are ash n ember;


I admit, what a sight you are, a boy of summer and heat. Forged of perhaps a woman who spent too much time scolding you; is that why you look down upon the girls who offer themselves to you, i wonder... Is that why you blush with disgust at my objections, why you find yourself flustered and ready to argue my wisps of wisdom.


Oh boy of summer, you know not of life and abuse.


Do not tempt me to show you true heat.

I had walked barefoot for hours under the waning moon, to passerby my flesh would glint enticingly as if it were my crooked finger, beckoning them to follow me into nothingness and awe.
I spoke in a long lost tongue and was scarcely bothered, only gazed at.

My path did lead somewhere this particular night. I’d stop only when my soles met grass on the very edge of the road settled on a hill, overlooking a far stretch of land, illuminated by the hum of the fires far off and the laughter of the humble, gathered in the warmth of all of Rome’s homes.

“Hello.”

Your voice came bubbleing up from the breeze, as if it escaped the grass.
I stayed firmly planted, both feet blanketed by dirt now, rooted.

“It would seem that you’ve found me.”

Where were you?
Had you forgotten the glances from last evening, the dance we made between our gestures, our vibrations. You felt it, I know.
The sickly sweet energy envelopeing you, weighing down your shoulder, clad with a velvet opera jacket. That yes, I seen countless times from my box, high above the stage, set away from the crowds and warmth.
Oh how I memorized the curve of your flushed cheek, petal thin, pressed against knuckles that I’m sure, moved ever so delicate against your flesh as you played harmonious keys on into the late night.

But where had you vanished to?
I’ve come to this very cafe for twenty years, no sign of your halo wheat hair hovering amongst the crowd .