To A Stranger in And The Rest.

These ones are for you, because we speak the same language.

Because this is how you say, this hurts; and this is how you say, I’m sorry.

Because the smudged-scarlet eyeliner of bitter-burnt heartbreak is ephemeral footprints that fade in the sand; I need to carry this with me, externally and visibly, for longer than tears take to dry on my cheeks. I don’t want to forget it, I need to regret it: painfully, powerfully, deeply, forever, if I could have done something better, and kept you together.

Your open-hearted eloquence exuded such exquisite elegance that I didn’t see the evidence; I was so busy listening, I didn’t hear the words. You spoke with such lucidity, painted it so vividly, for a moment I could almost see the molten-gold liquidity of your adored tranquility; the solidity and stability of that intense innate affinity, envisioned for infinity. That perfect-pastel landscape with its softly-sanded curves, the contoured cradled comfort you so desperately deserve.

It seems so utterly improbable, so shatteringly intolerable, that something so incredible- born to live invincibly, designed for immortality and promised for eternity- could ever be illusory, or simply cease to be.

I am so afraid that somehow, my footsteps walked into your world, and left the earth scorched with indelible marks, scarring the tiptoed lines of my path. I am afraid that even curled up small, I’m a trembling foetal wrecking-ball, ripping vast voids of blackness clean through the canvas of your universe; rolling unknowing through the lines of your poem, scattering pieces of perfect verse; until the lyrics are lost and the message is blurred: something beautiful beaten, defaced and dispersed.

Were my interactions- or inaction- fractions of a chain reaction; the choking-steel chain you’re now wrapped in, strapped in, trapped in? If my any contribution could cause resolution or comprise restitution, I would do it; I would face every wrath wreaked in retribution. I’m only confusion, a burnt-eye illusion, my intrusion impacting existing contusions; my presence an infusion of poison-pollution.

If the hazy blaze of your sun breathed a pulse in my palm, that glowing-gas planet a halogen ball, held so cautiously and carefully, given like a gift to me; were it mine to relinquish, I instantly would, I’d hand back your future if only I could. That dreamscape should be yours, of course; I wish it with violent, vehement force: I was carelessly dazed, perhaps dazzled, amazed; daydreaming of distant horizon-line skies, distracted as sunrise burnt holes through my eyes.

You have no idea what I would do, to realign the stars for you.

I would leave my every word unspoken, if it could only leave your world unbroken.