The wasted kind of beauty

3 Oct

Silence.

 

The penetrating kind, hanging heavy

Upon our reunion. It lingers in our smiles,

turning them dusty. And when we look

at each other, I’m shocked

by the ragged patchwork of our past,

the blushing wishes and crushing,

Wordless hours, worthless glitter

of shattered plates and little earthquakes

exploding in our stomachs.

 

We look at each other, at the gashing

nostalgia. We look at each other and see

this silence. This Pandora’s box.

 

And you, Narcissus, fixing your gaze

to greet the birds but not me.

Reaching out for the clouds. I stare,

to soak you in your pride and

Spite, to show you the vast glacier

Behind my eyes. This unmoving,

Solid surface will not give. No,

These are not tears my love.

They are falling pearls of ice,

Diamonds, to leave your heart

A bomb-site. To freeze your petals.

 

And yet, I wish to redeem that one night

when silence was not a villain but our gravity.

The night it pulled us together.

 

As we swayed, drunkenly, so kiddish

and innocent and blissfully unaware

of the sly resentment already

dogging us. We tiptoed

on the tightrope of happiness,

a slim thread of hope, ready to cut

our inexperienced feet. You worked

your  shaky hands down my back

and stretched the corners of my soul

into a blanket to keep us warm.

 

Under there, made brave by the silence,

I propped all my happily-ever-afters

Against your being.

 

Later, you said, we’ll leave this night

To rest under the blanket. It will lie there,

bare in the darkness, untraced and safe

from the detrition of time and light, safe

from our fumbling attempts of goodbyes.

In those words, I loved you.

 

But I think you forgot, that blanket

was my soul, the one you created.

Like the God who gets bored

on the Seventh day and forgets

to close the tab, to stop the flood

from pouring. I think you forgot

that nothing living survives in the dark,

in the ferocity of open water with

no boundaries, without a horizon.

I think you forgot I was something living.

 

And there it was, in your promise,

the suffocating, gulping, drowning

silence closing in on us.

 

And if we were a butterfly, it

Would be the pitch-black kind,

the one that performs its pirouettes

to no audience at all. It would be the kind

that fights the night, snaps its spine

with forcing pride,  only to die at dawn.

 

The most wasted kind of beauty.

https://daydreamdaisies.files.wordpress.com/2012/10/6a00d834ff890853ef01538f5c3f17970b.jpg?w=300

Another poem, phew. The birth of this onto paper was a bit difficult, and had I been pregnant with it for 9 months, instead of the few days it spend buzzing in my mind taking shape, I would have opted for a caesar. Despite the scars. Besided, aren’t scars a good thing in literature? You always hear about the tortured writers with so heavy bags under their eyes they wouldn’t pass the weight allowance of any air line check in. Now that, my friends, is a silver lining on heart ache for all the future writers; Go out, fall in love, feel crappy and you’ve got yourself a best-seller. But please don’t end up like Sylvia Plath.
Good night!

First photo from http://intermezzo.typepad.com, second my own

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