Away and Cold
Away and Cold
My moonlit figure lies on the stone that covers you
Bringing your last words closer to my face
To breathe in the scent that would always hover over you.
The scent of fresh ink and the warm paper,
This reminds me of your graceful writing, which reminds me of your never-ending grace,
“Never start with bad news,” you said once, “leave those for later.”
(You never followed your own rules…)
My stumbling figure runs through the dead pine forest aimlessly,
Thinking, breathing and crying for you,
Gripping onto that ink-scented paper you wrote so effortlessly.
- You always had the gift or words…
Weeping willows with their branches sadly hung over the frozen grounds whip my face as I dream of you.
You and me… One word… One kiss… One breath… One touch… In the collision of two perfectly distorted worlds.
(You liar.)
Violent lacerations on the milky white skin
And my figure, pushed onto the brinks of an end, screams beyond any higher reason.
My lips word the pain, the pain inflicted by your doings, inflicted by you.
More than on the outside, the screaming figure bleeds from within,
Its blood poring down, melting into bitter tears of treason.
(Traitor.)
In the dead of night, a little girl stands alone, needing you,
Missing your touch, your breath, your scent and her heart – it is all gone.
A little girl stands wearily on the cliff, waves crashing against the merciless rocks in despair.
(Thinking, breathing and crying for you…)
The moon hides its ebony face veiling her with misty grey; she needs to do this on her own.
Amber eyes, cold and lost, resting in the black water, her cheeks are wet from crying.
Clothes blood-stained from the raging hurt – a little girl with lust for dying.
Amber eyes close as she drifts off into her memories of you, into dismay,
(Thinking, breathing and crying for you…)
As she takes a step ahead. Her soul slips to meet yours… So far away.
Personal. Go easy on me.
My moonlit figure lies on the stone that covers you
Bringing your last words closer to my face
To breathe in the scent that would always hover over you.
The scent of fresh ink and the warm paper,
This reminds me of your graceful writing, which reminds me of your never-ending grace,
“Never start with bad news,” you said once, “leave those for later.”
(You never followed your own rules…)
My stumbling figure runs through the dead pine forest aimlessly,
Thinking, breathing and crying for you,
Gripping onto that ink-scented paper you wrote so effortlessly.
- You always had the gift or words…
Weeping willows with their branches sadly hung over the frozen grounds whip my face as I dream of you.
You and me… One word… One kiss… One breath… One touch… In the collision of two perfectly distorted worlds.
(You liar.)
Violent lacerations on the milky white skin
And my figure, pushed onto the brinks of an end, screams beyond any higher reason.
My lips word the pain, the pain inflicted by your doings, inflicted by you.
More than on the outside, the screaming figure bleeds from within,
Its blood poring down, melting into bitter tears of treason.
(Traitor.)
In the dead of night, a little girl stands alone, needing you,
Missing your touch, your breath, your scent and her heart – it is all gone.
A little girl stands wearily on the cliff, waves crashing against the merciless rocks in despair.
(Thinking, breathing and crying for you…)
The moon hides its ebony face veiling her with misty grey; she needs to do this on her own.
Amber eyes, cold and lost, resting in the black water, her cheeks are wet from crying.
Clothes blood-stained from the raging hurt – a little girl with lust for dying.
Amber eyes close as she drifts off into her memories of you, into dismay,
(Thinking, breathing and crying for you…)
As she takes a step ahead. Her soul slips to meet yours… So far away.
Personal. Go easy on me.