What Dreams May Come

I am waiting for you. I see you just there. I want you so much it is killing me. But I would rather die this death than be without you. Do you see me the way that I see you? And are you so very far away that you do not come to me now? I will still be waiting when you get here. My breath is too great for my chest, costae straining to contain what atmosphere the pneumos can absorb as my heart swells. I’m burning, I’m breaking, I’m waiting for you.

I will wait forever.

In waking I can still feel the warm press of your body crushing down upon mine. In the crowded room where we osculate there is only the muted thunder, cacophony in miniscule. All of my focus on you, in you. I incense you; inhale you – you are etched upon my mind more intense than my best recollections; a supernova sunset. In waking I breathe and scent you in the air, my frantic frenetic searching otiosely. I can taste you still upon my labium, strong and supple the press of your superioris upon mine.

I am still perambulating those amplitudes on your flesh when corporeality crowds in, overbearing and callous. Consciousness is the bitch thieving you away. The ache of it is breaking my heart, even in this moment centuries pass and I die in muted silence – how bitter sweet the pain. But silently in the early mornings I am stealing myself back to you, because it is there you are waiting for me. I want to trace my life upon your syncytium, burn it to ash and blow it away on a bitter sea wind before giving you mine.

It’s your eyes, burnished and blackened honey – soul consuming. We do not need to articulate. You do not need to move as I am already crashing into you the instant those umber orbs find mine supernova of hypergiants. Everything laid open and bare, there is no fear – only the need to touch, those epochs when not even flesh has caressed and all is only body heat and nearness Einstein makes theories on in thinking rooms far away from here and now…

My moon will rise and set within you and that is all that I will ever need.

I’m waiting for you.

Opheliac

Strumming waters, soft flowing in decadence – bejeweled in pussy willows, lily pads and whispering reeds. They sing a song if you listen, but it has been decades since the universe revolved around yourself.

Soft is the smile crawling across that porcelain façade, petal bright and supple. Wearily she traces the secrets of time across that liquid surface, reflective as a mirror, chill with winter’s lust. Darkened sable, as bottoms of crystal springs - that reflective sepia rich with surreptitiousness the earth murmurs on the wind. How bright the verdant foliage clutching the cool flow.

The light of that smile never reaches those sorrowful orbs, dulled darkened and burnished. Slothful that figure clambers into view, removing all hints of humor drearily resplendent upon that visage.

Narcissus didn’t fall in, he was pushed…

The ease of it hollowed her. Hours watching vanity embodied wasted. Worse, the sense of shallow futility, all remorsefully ineffective. Observing the dissolute departure of his profligate cadaver she wriggled her toes into the malleable earth.

Millennia elapsed and still her figure remained statuary in silence. Sluggishly rising, the coarse

rustlings of silk, dark emerald shimmering golden iridescence, susserated repartee to the mistral blustering amongst the reeds. Heavy the folds of cloth encompassing the fleshed frame, pulling in gravitational need. Plantar shuffling, sink shallowly forming minuscule mountains and valleys amidst cloying grasses.

Gently lapping along metatarsus submerging scarcely adjacent of flowing memory of snow,

rivulets coarse superior seducing porcelain into wintry depths. Vivacious consternation as physique plunges into that brumal mellifluousness. Mass consumption of ichorous stills inhalation. Upward tilt, leisurely absorbing roiling exterior. Pawn encompassed of currents marching to their heart.

Slow ascension, tumultuous tresses broadened in death’s halo.

If Ophelia drowns, and no one notices – is she really dead?