Sometimes I write against used tissue papers, the pen blotting the ink to form the insignia of your name. We’ve grown too old to listen to fairytale endings, yet too young to realize they don’t exist.
So where do I start an essay to love? – a love that is flourished in a passion that is long dead.
I am indifferent… ignorant to the syllables of that familiar call. I tell them I’ve never known you, not even if the moon eats your shadows to recoil. We’ve set up boundaries… distances of far away bridges that never really taught me what it is to forget you.
When I play with the cracks of parchment on black tint, I am reminded of your bluntness. Something that never gave me pure acknowledgment and willingness to be an apprentice to your truth.
Do we write messages on sand? The waves have wounded their right to blistering permanence; I told you that the sky was randomly vandalized ever since.
So which are you – the cluttered clouds on Sunday mornings, or the painted canopies of naked women? You never did make sense, didn’t you? You did.
So I start my worship to your inevitable greatness; one that sucks at my scarlet proof. I lay before this hour without ever undoing a mistake of forever blinding you.
This is my heart. A wretched bewilderment to my scatter, to my drug.
An essay to love defeat.
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