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Dear Adoles,

Let me begin by saying that this letter is not for you. I am writing to a reincarnate of passion that remains nameless, a bodiless obsession that I have yet to kiss, or weep over. Understand that this ink is not made to shatter you; I don't expect you to even read this. I would have written it in a dead tongue so that you may never know the extent of this ache, but I discovered there is no deader language than my own. With that, I unravel my madness before you like a veil of something holier than your eyes in twilight; something that may or may not be a part of you, but sings just as silently.

dear forgotten,

It is always difficult to whisper you.

The sun is too bright, persistent with her jovial heat in my darkest hour, and I am the after-birth of sufferance. You see, I realized that you are no longer an addiction. My heart does not stammer as dumbly as it used to; in fact, it hardly stirs at all anymore. I cannot blame you; you do not exist.

I had felt your presence before I could speak of such shadows -

beneath the stone;
a moonlit destruction, a quiet cataclysm sinking, and becoming,
my reason.

To take another breath. To tremble with love, and hate of that love, because it could never be given. To bleed for no other reason than to write sonnets along the shores you loved most.

And what of the oceans spilled from my sternum of dust? From the eyes that were merely stone for centuries, but yielded to your agonized songs? What of the resurrecting flames, the death I would have kissed daily if it meant one word, or three, from your still lips?

The nights do not comfort me anymore. Did I ever tell you that? You've become a parasitic yearning, a throb of miserable lust, constantly beating against every filament, and I am mad to still love you. I am mad to still think your heart will ever sing my name.

A shadow cannot love light; but you were emptiness, you were memory forgotten, and I adored you because I could exist in your darkness; because I existed, rather than being a mirror reflecting nothing.

dear perfect stranger,

The shards still sob with your voice. And I remember again that I am dead to you.

Irrevocably yours,

- S.

This poem is Copyright © FleurdeSang