Arrow's Anthology

Lullabies

You sung me to sleep last Thursday.

It's Monday now, and I'm lying awake in bed, just waiting to hear your voice again. I can feel the ghost of your touch on my face still, traced patterns on the plains of my body, soft love on my lips, and I can feel the ghost of emotions you made me feel - emotions so powerful I thought could only belong to the gods of old. You worshipped me, compared me to ancient landscapes and dreamscapes, gifted me with honeyed whispers and golden memories.

The memories are starting to turn dull.

It's Tuesday now. I'm on my side, and the angry red of the alarm clock taunts me with its vicious glare, the bold 4:23AM holding me captive in it's sleepless cage. My head is filled and swirling with the promises you gave, melodious and bittersweet, my heart light and reaching for yours. I can see you in the distance, you're blurred, but you're there, and I know its you, and I weep because I know if I open my eyes I will only be met with cruel, cruel red. How can I sleep when my dreams are filled with you?

It's Wednesday now, and I've given up with sleep. What once was welcomed, unwaveringly warm, and safe, is now a mere barren wasteland that envelopes me in it's frozen embrace, when I should be wrapped in yours. It's wrong. It all just feels so wrong. Emily Brontë said once that "he is more myself than I am. Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same", I had read that while waiting for you, and I had realised with a pang that this was our truth. And I miss you. I miss everything about you. And I miss us. I miss laughing, and I miss our wanderlust reflected in human lust, our adrenaline filled adventures reflecting our adrenaline fuelled connection - our pure, hopeless connection. And I miss you.

Its Thursday again. I'm wearing red. It's your favourite colour, remember? I'm wearing red because I need you here with me. I need to hear you laugh, and sing, and god I need to hear you sing, and it hurts, it just hurts so bad. It hurts and I can't stand to wear the red anymore, and I'm crying as I burn it because I'm burning you along with it. Can't you feel that? The red morphs, and dies, and I cry some more as I can't help but hope the red of the rose on your grave will not die, but live forever, and keep you alive with it, because I couldn't stand it if that wasn't true.

I don't know how I ended up in bed, but I'm naked, and cold, and loneliness has carved his mocking wound into my soul. Sobs and thoughts of anguish still blanket the room, but if I try hard enough I can hear a faint melody in the pain, and I can feel you lying next to me, and I cry pure joy. I can sing, and you're singing with me - I can hear you so clearly. We're singing, and you're holding me, and everything is a perfect, crystalline, picture.

You sung me to sleep last Thursday, and you sung me to sleep today, but now I'll never hear your lullaby again.