i beg in rotation
to remember without question
how it felt before you
we stand at edge
screaming from our lost haven
do you feel it?
i was dancing in the garden
wondering if i had lost it
the psychosis burns
flames thrive
i love to feel a little devilish
to stand at your feet
would be to stand at hell
everything seems to be
everywhere but here
i can feel it
i can taste it
i even told you
how i embrace it
we’re dancing in echoes
in gardens of forests
i stand at your edge
looking for infidelities
everything sounds like broken poetry
your name, your voice, our vice
and i take
but not to run
words which i can throw with
your echoes still call
i feel like i can taste it all
just a touch of heaven
or is that what they call this?
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We move in moments, yet the moment doesn’t move. We move in the moment and that moment pauses. We reflect in years to come. The scent, the touch, the taste, the feeling that moment brought. That is nostalgia building, a memory forming. When we stop, we appreciate because we don’t always have what we want. We don’t always have what’s best, but we can reflect and appreciate what we had in that moment.
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i lie in depth
to touch you with every step
we take force to forward
to deepen, to strengthen, to further
we make moments in memories
dancing with rosemary
i take you to take i
your mind against mine
and we’re twirling in eternity
every word was said so carelessly
we move from past to present to a lack of existence
years become distance, conversations we had change position
i’m spinning in kitchens wondering if i had missed it
a darken transition, a loss of ignition
we’re dancing with ghosts
memories of our past, lost souls
trying to justify it
nothing makes sense
things which end seem to end
the candle burns
just enough to let us expend
just enough to let us mend -
When I stand before myself in death, I want to look at myself only and know I fell in love with every detail I possibly could.
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I lie in width and wallow in length. We can die a thousand times and I’d still remember your face. Your name burns with the moon as I transcend. It’ll be a hundred million years and I know we will meet again. You make moments out of nothing, scents out of what used to be. Words seem to ricochet off what could have been. A cliche in the wind, a walk down the street we had left each other in. You make moments out of touching and longing out of more than something.
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Some things are exactly how we leave them. Years go by and we long, passion builds, loss extends and we miss forbidden memories. Every once in awhile I long for what used to be instead of what is. I remember how I left it, last words said, how your voice echoes. It’s not sadness. It’s not quite happiness. It was bittersweet. Things were bittersweet. I still think of it quite often and wonder if the memories for you ever soften.
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Your skin was poetry to me. The depth I felt, the way you felt metaphorically. You go deep, but we went deeper. I bend in thoughts of you. Eight years and I still die to think of you. We break in question, we mend in moments, and when we fall, we fall for eternity.
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It was your voice in the eve and the wind against me. The way your words used to caress, how we’d disagree. I reminisce in toxicity because it feels good to feel a dark electricity.
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I forgave you, but it took me a long time to forgive myself. We reminisce in reason to create ideas of rebellion. I rebelled against the idea of happiness. When you wallow, it feels hollow, and you follow the thought of a sullen sadness. You break to bend in situations you leave yourself in. You become in moments of sadness as you find the strength to pull through.
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Becoming older didn’t sadden me. The realization that time actually moves made me sad. Years go by and moments become older. Distance becomes longer. Moments which were yesterday suddenly span decades. I don’t miss myself as a child. I miss the moments in my childhood which founded the person I am today. Curiosity, conversations, touch, and hurt – those are things I miss. Those are things which made me who I am.
