You and your words shall be missed. Come back soon. 

And I didn’t even get to say goodbye. 

Or thank you.  

skysaredoorwayshome:

i.

She had white skin, paper mached by
days spent caged where light tore it’s
fingers bloody trying to reach her, and 
so she never carried sunlight on her tongue. 
Instead, she had the light of an albino 
moon freckling her skin, broken only 
by the shadow of a horse’s mane, or 
wavering blue bird wings. She had 
black hair, night stained waves falling
into the shores of shoulder blades in
the back, and flooding out to the sea 
of piercing clavicles in the front, deep
like sea creatures, drifting, her body
always drifted towards mine, with red 
lips carrying blood to my sharp cheek-
bones because she’d been asking a 
broken, torn buck for guidance, and 
after soft, trembling kisses, his blood
became the sacrifice to the blush in 
my skin. Her pulse thumped in the
rhythm of a bird song, because her
vertebrae was winged, only she 
couldn’t fly because her hair tangled
her back into hushed, black stillness.

ii.

She had hallowed out bones, white as 
the paper mache of her skin. They carried
the howling of wolves like flutes, when
she shivered I knew it was the song of a 
blue-bird finding home in her spine, 
shaking her body. She had a wind 
throat, that was the only way she breathed
and when she fought, she carried the fire
of a phoenix in the flamed arrows of a
buck’s spine, the white daggers of a 
bear’s teeth to slice skin red. But her own
skin did not glow with death – she was
breathing from the kiss of sweet lips, some-
thing so alive, you could hold it in between
your tongue, and the spaces sensitive to
wind between your teeth. She fought with
a tingling in her spine, a fired arrow, a 
breath resonating off of her ruby red lips. 


iii.

She made love with tracks in the snow,
because when it snowed, that’s where 
my animal prints were encased. Her
fingertips could trace home in the 
earth for anything she was seeking, 
and it would come. A falcon, a fawn,
small and terrified, a dove to cry 
the sad songs incased in her wind-
chime heart strings to the wind so 
they could light, like matches, and 
sigh aflame into the sky as rays of
sunlight, as butterflies and dust,
flying to lands she would never 
venture to. And sometimes me,
a tall, gangly child, with fingertips
tasting red apples on a desperate 
whim to hush a loneliness cradled
on his tongue – a taste only the 
white snowfall of her chest could 
unravel and season cinnamon,
with bones streaking her skin 
like warrior paint, I kissed 
mostly her hips sometime her
fingertips, because of the magic
I could gently tear, take a piece
of paper mache to carry her magic
in my own palms. I cherished her 
eyes blue as sea waves the most, 
and as for me, I cherished my 
lips most, the only way I knew
how to awaken her.

iv.

she fought only for a land the color 
of her skin; she was the taste coursing 
through a forests pulsing veins. 

(via skysaredoorwayshome-deactivated)

Dans le fond des forêts votre image me suit. - Racine

There is a panther stalks me down:
  One day I’ll have my death of him;
  His greed has set the woods aflame,
He prowls more lordly than the sun.
Most soft, most suavely glides that step,
  Advancing always at my back;
  From gaunt hemlock, rooks croak havoc:
The hit is on, and sprung the trap.
Flayed by thorns I trek the rocks,
  Haggard through the hot whit noon.
  Along red network of his veins
What fires run, what craving wakes?

Insatiate, he ransacks the land
  Condemned bo our ancestral faut,
  Crying: blood, let blood be spilt;
Meat must glut his mouth’s raw wound.
Keen the rending teeth and sweet
  The singeing fury of his fur;
  His kisses parch, each paw’s a briar,
Doom consummates that appetite.
In the wake of this fierce cat,
  Kindled like torches for his joy,
  Charred and ravened women lie,
Become his starving body’s bait.

Now hills hatch menace, spawning shade;
  Midnight cloaks the sultry grove;
  The black marauder, hauled by love
On fluent haunches, keeps my speed.
Behind snarled thickets of my eyes
  Lurks the lithe one; in dreams’ ambush
  Bright those claws that mar the flesh
And hungry, hungry, those taut thighs.
His ardor snares me, lights the trees,
  And I run flaring in my skin;
  What lull, what could can lap me in
When burns and brands that yellow gaze?

I hurl my heart to halt his pace,
  To quench his thirst I squander blood;
  He eats, and still he need seeks food,
Compels a totalt sacrifice.
His voice waylays me, spells a trance,
  The gutted forest falls to ash;
  Appalled by secret want, I rush
From such assault of radiance.
Entering the tower of my fears,
  I shut my doors on that dark guilts,
  I bolt the door, each door I bolt.
Blood quickens, gonging in my ears:

The panther’s tread is on the stairs,
Coming up and up the stairs.  

He ambled through the field as the vagabond that he was without her,
her absence draining him of all of which he was capable,
each possibility in his life now a withered rose whose black petals wilt, faded from the cardiac crimson with which they once bloomed. 

Either dawn or dusk it was that time when the world seems empty but for a soft blue light
everything shadowless,
everyone at rest.
He continued towards the elusive green light which emanated from just inside the opening of the forest at the close of the field.

Finally he was nearing the light towards which he had been wending his way for some time. 
But now his steps were punctuated with pain,
stepping on shards of broken hope pricking his skin, his surety
bleeding with doubt,
the light now seemed lacklustre, perhaps better admired at a distance,
destined to be part of a cocktail of pain.

And so at last, he stopped. He had reached the end of the field as night fell.
As he reached his closure, he looked up at his now starless sky. 
Death reached out for his hand, letting the cold take him,
the light extinguished itself. 

Jay was at last in peace. 

I now inhabit a new land. Unreality.
A feeling consumes me not for cause of unhappiness or depression.
Each day passes, much or little is done always without purpose
Feeling a marked difference: Me vs the world, rushing by in reality.

It is like meandering into a dark tunnel,
covered in foliage of the past,
graffiti of memories near forgotten
while watching everyone else march with purpose in the other direction.
With each step I lose the fading light of a once seemingly solid reality, filled with purpose and happiness. My pace slows. 

Doubt.

They say that one man is the accident the other is the hand that stops the blood.
They say one life is the cancer and another is the blade that makes the cut.

You could be that hand. It could be the blade. 
You unreachable. A faint memory. A distant wish. 
It, the blade, locked away, a padlocked hope.
Unattainable I am faced with problems I wish effervescent. 

Mère des jeux latins et des voluptés grecques,
Lesbos, où les baisers, languissants ou joyeux, 
Chauds comme les soleils, frais comme les pastèques, 
Font l’ornement des nuits et des jours glorieux, 
Mère des jeux latins et des voluptés grecques, 

Lesbos, où les baisers sont comme les cascades 
Qui se jettent sans peur dans les gouffres sans fonds, 
Et courent, sanglotant et gloussant par saccades, 
Orageux et secrets, fourmillants et profonds; 
Lesbos, où les baisers sont comme les cascades! 

Lesbos, où les Phrynés l’une l’autre s’attirent, 
Où jamais un soupir ne resta sans écho, 
À l’égal de Paphos les étoiles t’admirent, 
Et Vénus à bon droit peut jalouser Sapho!
Lesbos où les Phrynés l’une l’autre s’attirent, 

Lesbos, terre des nuits chaudes et langoureuses, 
Qui font qu’à leurs miroirs, stérile volupté! 
Les filles aux yeux creux, de leur corps amoureuses, 
Caressent les fruits mûrs de leur nubilité; 
Lesbos, terre des nuits chaudes et langoureuses, 

Laisse du vieux Platon se froncer l’oeil austère; 
Tu tires ton pardon de l’excès des baisers, 
Reine du doux empire, aimable et noble terre, 
Et des raffinements toujours inépuisés. 
Laisse du vieux Platon se froncer l’oeil austère. 

Tu tires ton pardon de l’éternel martyre, 
Infligé sans relâche aux coeurs ambitieux, 
Qu’attire loin de nous le radieux sourire 
Entrevu vaguement au bord des autres cieux! 
Tu tires ton pardon de l’éternel martyre! 

Qui des Dieux osera, Lesbos, être ton juge 
Et condamner ton front pâli dans les travaux, 
Si ses balances d’or n’ont pesé le déluge 
De larmes qu’à la mer ont versé tes ruisseaux? 
Qui des Dieux osera, Lesbos, être ton juge? 

Que nous veulent les lois du juste et de l’injuste ? 
Vierges au coeur sublime, honneur de l’archipel, 
Votre religion comme une autre est auguste, 
Et l’amour se rira de l’Enfer et du Ciel! 
Que nous veulent les lois du juste et de l’injuste? 

Car Lesbos entre tous m’a choisi sur la terre 
Pour chanter le secret de ses vierges en fleurs, 
Et je fus dès l’enfance admis au noir mystère 
Des rires effrénés mêlés aux sombres pleurs; 
Car Lesbos entre tous m’a choisi sur la terre. 

Et depuis lors je veille au sommet de Leucate, 
Comme une sentinelle à l’oeil perçant et sûr, 
Qui guette nuit et jour brick, tartane ou frégate, 
Dont les formes au loin frissonnent dans l’azur; 
Et depuis lors je veille au sommet de Leucate, 

Pour savoir si la mer est indulgente et bonne, 
Et parmi les sanglots dont le roc retentit 
Un soir ramènera vers Lesbos, qui pardonne, 
Le cadavre adoré de Sapho, qui partit 
Pour savoir si la mer est indulgente et bonne! 

De la mâle Sapho, l’amante et le poète, 
Plus belle que Vénus par ses mornes pâleurs! 
— L’oeil d’azur est vaincu par l’oeil noir que tachète 
Le cercle ténébreux tracé par les douleurs 
De la mâle Sapho, l’amante et le poète! 

— Plus belle que Vénus se dressant sur le monde 
Et versant les trésors de sa sérénité 
Et le rayonnement de sa jeunesse blonde 
Sur le vieil Océan de sa fille enchanté; 
Plus belle que Vénus se dressant sur le monde! 

— De Sapho qui mourut le jour de son blasphème, 
Quand, insultant le rite et le culte inventé, 
Elle fit son beau corps la pâture suprême 
D’un brutal dont l’orgueil punit l’impiété 
De celle qui mourut le jour de son blasphème. 

Et c’est depuis ce temps que Lesbos se lamente, 
Et, malgré les honneurs que lui rend l’univers, 
S’enivre chaque nuit du cri de la tourmente 
Que poussent vers les cieux ses rivages déserts. 
Et c’est depuis ce temps que Lesbos se lamente!

— Charles Baudelaire