This is our autumn. The fingerprints of our summer brittle
and skeletal, their remnants flaking away to reveal the cold of our winter. Is
this desolation or simply the only beauty we have left? Could an ache be more
exquisite or a pretty agony more poignant in our garden of discontent? Time
lays snow thick over our footprints, what can be left to remember us as we set
out on that search to find ourselves through the frosted windows of each other.
Our lips were frozen with unspoken words, which blushed only blue. I can feel
the cold burn of your touch. I can even feel the sting of when we painted our
lips warm with tongue brushes and whispered promises that dripped like sticky
honey through our rigid fingers.
I didn't just say goodbye to you; I said goodbye to a part of me too. The
winter flushed our cheeks with pretty bruises, our thirsty hands peeling off
these wretched old skins to find something new, something craved, another me
and another you.
Yet the blue turned to red, as we kissed so perfectly in unity. We thought it
was a sign when our words gushed and bled into those enrapturing silences
afraid to speak our minds. We couldn’t live like that.
You can't live forever in winter....as motions and thoughts froze into frigid tableau's of dreams that time axed through.
Only I found my summer. I was kissing daffodils in the morning dew, laughing
wind blowing through my hair as I reminiscence this moment. With words that
embraced me with sweet kisses upon my sighs and fingertips which warmed as they
mapped across my flesh. I could breathe again. I was no longer holding my
breath. Breathing was always so much better then bleeding.
In the past, we held such beautiful faces, our hands mirrored with the
gentility of feathers and the clarity of empty glass with our armored smiling
eyes. If only we could hold on to the now and forgot the past.
Just now, I counted your kisses against the lashes on my arms. Yet, why
couldn't you have kissed me more? They were brighter and riper and held more
passion then your half closed eyes.
We were the orphans of our discontent, made of scattered shards, tiptoeing on
bare feet. We thought we were folding when we were only just breaking.
Desperately, holding on to our souls, for something new, like a birth of a new
star and the death of the moon.
We wore our autumn in beautiful bruises and our winter filled our veins and
then we were gone, gone when it rained.
If only our souls were bullet proof - then we probably would never forget what
happened that day.
