"Can I go out this weekend?" I asked my father, carefully avoiding passion contaminating my tone.
He turned to me, his black coat shrouding his hair and stubble, and he gave me my sentence. He told me of letters and rules, he let the passion I'd been rationing breathe, and he turned it into rage, anger and sorrow.
He told me I must forget you,
he was the first one.
•×•
I thought of the first time we met.
I thought of the first time my eyes met yours.
I thought of the memories and the laughter, of the silence and the penance.
I thought of your lips, of your passion, of your secrets.
I thought of you.
•×•
And so I consented to a life of restrictions.
I paid my price and confessed to crimes that I'd never dreamed of committing.
And so I stared out of that window, I stared at the slanted daggers of rain.
I wished that the black paint my hands caressed could form a void, a void that sucked us in.
- a void that strangled and warped those who hoarded fallacies and released them like dogs.
•×•
And I thought of you again,
This time I thought of the texts you'd sent me, of the closeness I was bound to you by.
I promised to forget.
But, to my father's dismay, the vow I made in secret was a poignant reversal of his constrictions.
To forget them and to hoard you.
****
A/N: missing love; writing these makes me remember.
YOU ARE READING
A Culmination Of Realities
PoetryAs we float through life, victimized by circumstance and stalked by rumours, we come to understand that false rumours have opposites: realities. These are the realities to which this book is dedicated. These realities share only truth, for some are...
