If I were not I
Inky darkness feels like velvet to me, places in the shadows where I can slip in and become unseen. Weightless, formless, chilled from a stunning night wind.
If I had wings they’d be heavy, blood tipped and razor edged. Glittering like malicious eyes in the eerie blue light of my computer’s screen. Steel with simple keen edges, cold to look at and deadly to touch. If I could fly I’d cleave the night in two, tearing the sky from it’s rivits showing the place behind where God, the voyeur, sits unnoticed. Exposing stars that flicker like candles to the cruel north wind.
Out they go
one by one
and we are left in darkness. You and I.
If you had wings they’d be ethereal, shimmering with ones and zeros impossible to touch. Like you. Shifting and always slightly sideways, unreachable and unexplainable.
You are a dark spirit bearing gifts in exchange for love.
You are a quiet mind in a lotus garden.
You are quick, stattico words typed on white pages and read with precision.
You are a cold frame hiding a thunderous, riveting heart.
You are a voice over a wire and I clasp the phone tight and attempt not to tremble.
You are a hand reaching out from the darkness to hold mine.
You are memories that I want to know.
You are mystery and noise and simple tasks that baffle me with their complexity.
You are the reason for the cruel, dark sea.
…and for these wings…
Sometimes, you are the only one who sees underneath the gloaming to the fluttering thing within.
That’s beautiful. I have this horrible, stupid feeling that it’s about me, but that’s because I’m a Mimetic Beast.
If it were about you would it really be so bad?
Because if so I’ll lie to you.
If it were about me, I’d smile and break my face apart, and have to hide the shards in my pillow. My pillowcase is red, so that’s always easy. My mirror, on the other hand, that’s much, much harder. The stare–
Your words, as always, are beautiful beyond measure. Too beautiful to bear, at times. They take the language and break it apart into jewells that shine in the eyes of children, glitter along the banks of unknown rivers, beam hope into the eyes of Ice Queens, bring all who hear them the sense of order, of love, of hope, and of beauty.
Your words are far too beautiful to apply to me. I am the daughter of Corsica, lost in a web spun from before I was born. All I know is a five inch circle, etched into concrete, that shatters with each aim I take.
“This is why…I told you…”
After reading your comment…I realise I still have alot to learn about the beauty of the written word. Now I feel all shy and gigglefaced.