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Life does not whisper through me, though I speak; in silence, in a flowing death measured by time. I am infinite, yet regarded as but dust of a former god, a blurred chapter of endless histories.

I am a pale song chanted by lips forgotten, a kiss unwanted.

I will confess to you now; these hands do not sigh with a human voice. Nor do they weave happiness, or love. A caress is merely a cruel enchantment for the flesh that swells with heat, a call to that which sustains me.

I do not expect you to understand this language of weeping; it is old and withered like me, though you only see perfection.

Before I begin the end, I will remind you first of all that I am not kind.

I will not spare your mortal heart with the illusions you constantly seek; you will suffer. Not a physical torment, but a nameless agony that can only begin with a woman.

~*~

Perhaps it was her every intention to ruin me; I have forgotten the reasons by now, centuries or seconds ago, it is all a dream that I can never relive. It was in Paris, in death, where I held her first. She asked me if I was the type of shadow that could resurrect her. Not in light, I whispered. I remember she took my hands gently, and kissed the flesh on my wrist, leaving a prayer within the scars that did not take life when it was not wanted.

There was a soft terror in her eyes, in the smile she seldom gifted. She spoke of the ashes that slept on her tongue whenever she thought of father, the dust that never wavered regardless of which hands shook her, regardless of the breath that held ships from the oceans she loved. I had no wind to offer her, no resemblance of life to gift for a soul that was hopelessly searching for it. I reminded her that there was no god hiding in my white hands, nor in the lips that dared to kiss such tears; in the veins that were empty, and called to her flowing sadness.

I reminded her, as well as myself, that it is impossible to love the dead.

(unfinished.)

This poem is Copyright © FleurdeSang