by Gabrielle L. Ricafrente (Blue_Notebook)

You have missed me.
Hurriedly buried before an accumulation of dust,
trampled over by a hundred clacking which,
for you and me,
silences the rusty burst of an unsaid parting,
obscures the mimicking thuds of life saying dadum-dadum-dadum,
the rhythm of a house at war brought to life by horses;
all within our heaving chests,
all within our sighing breasts,
naked and proud at revealing the interspersed souls within.

You will see me.
Beyond the smoke that hid
four traumatized irises,
rising from the fast-burning cigarette which
with your ghostly hands touching its fiery tip,
and with my fading lips french-kissing nicotine,
damned me,
damned us,
to hellish retribution as we, like children,
like the children we both are,
tried to rebuild castles out of ashes,
deluding each other that the river of fire is nothing
but a soft sun-kissed abundance of water.
‘Dive in’

And I suppose we did
become the astronomer and his wife.
My err is in promising you the firmament
while we scream “fuck” to the welkin.
Looking at the rolling sky
I now fail to see.
‘Our names sketched by stars.’
I failed to see.
With eyes reflecting the absent moon,
and your laughter shivering within me;
what a blind thought
to dream and dream of seeing
when I had been deprived of perception,
just as you had been deprived
of comprehension.

What we are.
Who we were.
Tales speak of lovers descant.
With throats cut,
regret-filled ears shut,
hands full of our gut.
You doubt so,
I wondered so.
A room of echoing moans and curses.
It is a musical theatre.
Made by a script too confident to be a Shakespearean tragedy.
Our very own,
yours and mine,

But like Moses and the Pharaoh,
we ride this chariot of destruction,
adorned with anemones as red as your lips,
bloomed as the blood staining our still warm bed,
scattered like our skins and bones
after years of tasting,
Yet, here we are
as one,
riding deathbeds, holding hands with a smirk on our skulls.

The bell tolls.
A divine tool to banter with
some demon who
brought a wife,
and a husband,
to an end.

‘In sickness and in health.’
‘Until death claims us both.’

Author’s Note:

Some of us choose to love. Some of us are chosen by love. In my case, love chose me as its private, one-man only, documentation team.

Credits to John Bauer for the wonderful illustration used.

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