Marcus
To watch him fall in love was to watch a sky at dawn after a melancholy spell. He followed a dream made conspicuously clear in his eyes, sparkling on a face revealing the relentless pursuit of riches and pleasure, perhaps of someone new.
When he received compliments from others he was unable to use his own voice to claim possession of the feelings in his heart that paralleled the Universe in its enormous and infinite motion, to thank them for their aether flowers. Such contrasts between lucid intent in body language and charming vestigial shyness built an attraction that could shake any statue.
So sweetly has he given me in a few key notes of his keyboard the tears I needed to bring down a house of fear. Where shall he drift to now? I’m longing for our union of touch and sound, standing, waiting by the phone. The recording of the sentiment seems trite and soulless in the hot wax of words because it is spoken through the eyes and the lips; the hands and the arms; the unmovable, bittersweet faith of tender longing borne on my lips waiting for a kiss of hope.
But he did not wish to be better, to overcome his disorder, the spiritual myopia of Depression. He saw destruction as a conduit for a better life, contemplating it every minute of his inclement emotional weather. Death becomes flowers in the spring. Today, I remember his life and display the writing on my skin worn by guilty happiness the acridest sorrow of them all: that moment when I stopped being him.
Father Time, take me away to another place in my mind. My trunks are full, the vision is bright and the road is still unknown.
© Text: Orlando Barahona
© Image: Chris Geatch/Flickr
This work by Orlando Barahona is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License.
When he received compliments from others he was unable to use his own voice to claim possession of the feelings in his heart that paralleled the Universe in its enormous and infinite motion, to thank them for their aether flowers. Such contrasts between lucid intent in body language and charming vestigial shyness built an attraction that could shake any statue.
So sweetly has he given me in a few key notes of his keyboard the tears I needed to bring down a house of fear. Where shall he drift to now? I’m longing for our union of touch and sound, standing, waiting by the phone. The recording of the sentiment seems trite and soulless in the hot wax of words because it is spoken through the eyes and the lips; the hands and the arms; the unmovable, bittersweet faith of tender longing borne on my lips waiting for a kiss of hope.
But he did not wish to be better, to overcome his disorder, the spiritual myopia of Depression. He saw destruction as a conduit for a better life, contemplating it every minute of his inclement emotional weather. Death becomes flowers in the spring. Today, I remember his life and display the writing on my skin worn by guilty happiness the acridest sorrow of them all: that moment when I stopped being him.
Father Time, take me away to another place in my mind. My trunks are full, the vision is bright and the road is still unknown.
© Text: Orlando Barahona
© Image: Chris Geatch/Flickr
This work by Orlando Barahona is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License. 