'Write & I...'

"You spent it beside the sea..."
"Can't say as I remember..." She responded, with time. It seemed she was delving as far back as last week, and yet the deep of her eyes forever remained. Not once since arriving had she looked to him when speaking, yes, her eyes had turned upon him if he mentioned any thing of a romantic nature, and any thing of home, but it was only these glances which he had been given. She was 'away', as ever she had been all the years before.
"The scent of the sea would creep through our window each of the mornings", he tried, "The evenings would shimmer against a black ocean, the sands would turn unnoticed and laughter could be heard upon the pier from our garden. It was quite a beautiful time."
"But I cannot smell the sea, not now", she offered, gently, folding her hair behind her ear, of which half of the strands immediately escaped back to the pale of her face.
His hands clasped dryly together, he studied her for a few quiet minutes. Glasses touched in the building, the simmer of quiet conversation around them faded in and out, the occasional rush of a car passing by below audible now and then. A woman laughed quite heartily for a few seconds, and this event was the only thing that seemed to stir the girl sat before him. She had returned to a shell from which he had once extracted her long before.
"There was lightening one of the nights", he almost sighed. "It shook even the oldest of the coastal buildings when the thunder arrived, you had noticed it coming long before I, almost as though you had sensed it's damp in the air. We never heard of any disturbance on the news, in fact, we never really watched the news. We just watched as it rocked the ocean, the poor ocean that had been delving sweetly into the evening horizon. The boats clambered about upon the waves, the gulls took from their perches and disapeared into the coming rain.
You and I, we remained as others walked to the dry, walked from the noise. I remember... the cool of the salty air, the damp at our feet and clash of the rain at our inappropriate shoes..."
"We never spoke", came her voice into his trail. He looked to her, and found that the browns of her eyes were settled upon his cupped hands.
"We rarely did", he responded.
It did not pass between them verbally, it was not heard by others eating nearby, nor did the cars passing below ever know they were up in that window together; They had both known then in that moment, that the sea never spoke, that the sea never cared for their sitting beside it and whistling to the bay, it never felt as she had dipped her feet into the salt every so often.
It had only been them, and because she had left her memories on the shore and never looked back, they were no more, and never to be seen in her mind's eye again.
His hands dropped one another, and with this motion, left in that resturant the hope that she may ever see what their eyes had once seen together. Like a worn book left to the sun, she had faded. Like the rose, she had wilted before him, parts of her gliding to the sand. He had never known more of a love, and she, she had never remembered a day passed.
"It is as though you do not have a face, not in my mind", the easy cool of her voice let, finally sounding as she had once before, if just more careful, "I have not forgotten the words, my dear, they have settled like a white feather on the water. They have lined my heart, bled my veins, that clatter of letters. I see nothing, but I read it all. My mind is only pages, not a camera. I've only the feather, not the shutter, and in word I may still love, as inhuman as it may seem. And I have never before known the love I do!".
The image of her rolled before him, her mouth did speak and sound did once rumble the silhouette of heads about the resturant around them, the lights passing below did ignite her complexion now and then, her eyes did still shine in his mind's eye.
But he never wrote it down.

Slight and understated emotional turnover. The dizziness that has consumed me lately, the ultimate tests and the achingly slow approach of Autumn. Distressed walls and antique throws, I find myself in the turn, I find myself lying with use of my clothing.
Each statement, each slur has embedded some where within bone, to be extracted later and mistaken for. And my heart wills me to be better, for it sees the body encasing itself, it sees the mishapen lull, it senses the lack and the over.
'What am I?', it cries to me, 'What is this beast in which you have placed me?!'
And so the heaviness in my chest swells, and my need for appreciation from my family furthers, waves from the horizon and laughs - 'She'll never do...'.
I grip these arms distastefully, and paint these eyes to see sweetly, to rosily tint the awful posture, the bad demeanour and the voice that could not hold a note.
'How I wish to speak' leaks the heart, secondly, 'How, if only you could, I could share a dream or two!'.
It sighs up into my throat, and remains dull and still.
'If only you could walk well, if only you would grow tall, oh if only you could sing!'.

A record creaks into play beside me, and beauty falls from it, and all that I feel is the jealousy of my heart, how it selfishly sighs and points me the blame.
Beautiful people are only people that have some thing beautiful to give.
'Even as small as a laugh', reminds the heart.

It is,
Banished has it been, from the dawns cool,
Taken from homely leaves and familar colour,
I am drained.
The worldly spirits igniting the outer in the skies,
With unnatural lights,
I can only sit back and wonder,
From where I watch.
He'll wander into view, a lonely figure on a hillside, by night.
He'll leak into my past so much as the future has hold of my days.
What is it,
That has kept me from them, that has led a gentle hand upon my shoulder,
When alone in the social rooms of days gone,
The slither of an ominous presence, my time, my walks,
My effort to go to a home, to settle.
It has swept by side,
I have seen the flicker in the lights,

My nights are only what he has in mind.
No! Not a relation to the old oak of the door,
Not a trickle of memory, the day passes to the next.
And then in the unconscious, they all look like he,
The all speak effortlessly as he.
Have you never the steady tread beside the demon?
Has there never been an ache in your pelvis,
In your bones?
A slithering fire, an ignited passion,
Has the urge to dampen been overwhelming,
Have you cried into nothing for whatever holds you back?

~
There then, is a strong scent of hay,
The salt-lick, the barrells of horsefeed and the cool of disgusting summer air.
A horizon deepening to red, the clouds few and scattered,
There is laughter of a young boy, missing teeth, albino to look to,
He disapears into the sinking sun,
Running into the horizon,
The hay tickles at my face, the tongue of a dog at my young legs.
The distance becomes ever hazy, the laughter lightening until I only imagine I am hearing it.
Beside me, a moist, dark mound begins to disturb the hay atop it,
It's skeletal back writhing and stretching outward,
The slime of it's skin reacting to the fresh air.
Movement does not take me, and I recall a dream in the shed.
Something like a tail swats about beneath the hay,
And a face is never seen.

Possibly the first winter.

I've lost my time,
For they have all died,
Their are voices are the grammar phone,
Their accent, the evening leaving for night.
The heavy of dresses, the layers of warmth,
The thick of velvet curtains,
The draped finery from overseas.
The fine woods and grand fire.

I have the whisper in my heart,
The everlasting of the beating breath beneath my palm,
The light echo of a bird at dawn,
The mist that lay upon the English morn',
I have been fortunate in it's beauty,
I have seen the tests of time,
For I have lived no longer than you,
But breathed in the musk of the passing line.

I find that by still flame, release,
Oh sweet release.
I see pale skin and delicate embroidery,
I hear his smile, that perfect grin that cups his eyes,
And the rest of the room sinks into darkness.
I've not slept, I have not winced,
I have dreamt by his side, ever,
I have wilted like the lasting rose.

I have looked no further than the day,
Only ever lost within the past.
I long as if the lives portrayed were mine?
My veins visibly pulse within these wrists,
Oh the finer part of my body.
The slim, golden bars of the cage flitter in the candlelight.
He is no longer here,
A hand clenches. Tightens.
I have lost the will to stop writing,
And with the gentle chill of September giving in to Autumn,
I grow hungry, once more, for onward, for it all to begin.
To begin being the past.

Room of rubble.

Yes, I have set my bags down on strange floors again, oh it has indeed been a while. It is the same city, with a different rhythm running through its vein, I myself bleed the same and yet this particular home is of different shade. I am not settled, God wonders when I ever will be, but I am calm, and slowly, my area becomes breathable, I adapt and yet still circle the edge.
I have not heard from a handful of particulars since departing again, I guess you should honestly be careful what you do ask for early on.
The first week had my dull of inspiration leaking back with a fresh vibe, the sort of trickle a mountain spring offers. The beauty of the space between the back of the taxi and the tarmac beneath, droplets of rain between, shone to me like no other. Do not call it a muse, but call it a breath.
Atop the bed I currently sit, it is not mine and yet I rest, joins me; the boxes. And many of them. Piled and coloured, bulging and half empty. Each sound beneath my large window is the delivery van I await, each creak, a possible guest of whom I am not willing to allow within yet.

I guess this should be brief, for words of my life are weak at present. I have been suffering internally, and to know one's necassary concern, it is all self-prod and question, and I unfortunately have little to soothe it. Oh but my shell, how lusciously she is treated, her skin dampening with age each day and yet soothed by a familiar and loving hand. The window we sleep beside ever brighter, and still do I hide in my shade.
It can be sweet, you know, just you. But no sweet will come without time, work and progress.
Oh do not end on a dull note! For each day is a grand oak door, for each dawn is the silk web of winter's morning and my evenings are the coloured crystal of occasion.

In case you had yet to realise, Autumn is breathing in through the window, and I inhale it's cool.
I'm coming back to life.