Broken strings & Pretty things

The world, seen through a young girl's eyes.

Archive for the tag “Love”

Summer.

Although the months of June and July were overcast and grey, it didn’t matter in the slightest. His presence was enough sunshine to burn through London’s hazy skyline. With him, life became a perpetual summer: the days were long and tasted sweet. Life was fanciful, and brilliant, and every moment could have been projected from a scriptwriter’s imagination.

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Mike.

I feel as if things will forever be left in this continuous time gap; this half-way house between conscious and unconscious worlds, where I don’t know whether words fell on deaf ears, or entered the final beats of your heart. And now that I don’t know whether God exists, I don’t know whether you still do too. I can’t find you in a night sky or in the closed walls of my wardrobe, and I don’t want it to be that way.  I don’t want you to be an unfinished memory in a faded photograph. I don’t want you to be that snapshot of bandages and tubes and a forgotten phone call. I want to remember the sound of your voice and the brown in your eyes and the ability to drive to your house. I want you to have air in your lungs.

Ellen.

I hope you know that my thoughts eternally tick over to the image of you. There, in the folds of my mind, I always imagine you to be happy. And I pray that is the case for you right now. I pray that your head falls restlessly into bed every night, and that each day is as striking as the sunset which closes it. I pray that the universe continues to smile upon you, adorning you with a thousand stars’ songs. Your joyfulness means more to me than my own, and I hope each day awakens you with drenches of sunlight on your face.

And I want you to know that there are days which are lonely and it feels like the drain drops will never cease. There are days filled with desperate bus journeys and endless empty pavements. But I want you to know that there are also many days filled with endless sunshine and golden memories and stomachs bloated with laughter. Those are the days to live for, for these dreary days are but a mere smear of cloud on this vibrant city’s skyline.

(image via tumblr)

Stitches.

And slowly, I started to miss him the tiny spaces that you just can’t get to. I missed him in the gap between moments. He stopped being a missing lung or a haunted street; instead, it had felt like something had been unstitched. His delicate weaves in my skin- his tender pulls and knots- were teased out, irreversibly and slowly. Each pulling thread was yet another wave in that ocean which kept us so far apart; the very ocean that continues to keep us in the fixed categories of ‘here’ and ‘there’.

It wasn’t that I was becoming unstitched myself, because I was still fully intact. I was still a whole. Losing him was a sort of numbing, draining, process. He was not an organ, preventing me from functioning, but he was vibrance. Things didn’t break without him. Things kept going, endlessly, tiresomely. I was stripped of colour, much like the northern sky that once streaked above us.

I missed him in sepia-toned sadness. Like our English summer, he was ephemeral and enchanting. But he flew away and I was left in a concrete jungle filled with hard faces and fake personalities. He stretched his wings whilst I had mine clipped. He found his paradise and I found my home in a cage.

I missed him lost on the underground, longing for his silent words of comfort and embraces sent along telephone wires. Only his voice could heal my woulds, and without it I was left cut and weeping. And I would call for him, desperately, endlessly, but he would never quite hear those words.

I stopped missing him at the dead of night, and started missing him at 3pm whilst having coffee with a half-beautiful man. I missed his curved teeth and curved speech. People here always asked questions, and I desperately missed his answers.

Eventually, I missed him when I realised that I  had forgotten him. I missed him on that Sunday when neither of us remembered to call. I missed him when I realised our faces stained other people’s photographs, but not each other’s.

I missed him when I realised that he was coming home this month.

(image via tumblr)

February.

He was my weekday delight and my Sunday torment. He was evenings sprayed with starlight and a flooded tube journey. He was burning bright blue, and he hurt me every time, even when it made me happy. He was an addiction that I never intended to pick up. He crawled slowly into my veins, seeping, corroding, until I couldn’t get enough.

But I couldn’t get away, because I was lonely and he was enchanting and he was the only pair of lips in a faceless city which would whisper my name.

(image credit photosbyajm.tumblr.com )

Enough.

This glimmer is warm enough to heat my bones through these cold winter days. I would happily lay here and touch fingertips and feel nothing more than the warm whistle of air pass through his lips. Cradled in arms with dreamy-glazed eyes, I will continue to search the delicateness of his features. This soft gap between our bodies: that is just enough.

This just right.

image via tumblr

For Dad.

I’m trapped behind the barriers
screaming out your name
but you’re too far down the platform
just please don’t get on that train.

Hazy mornings are the most free
before the day rears his ugly face
before reality hurtles in
I cherish this bland taste.

But then my mind falls to sliding doors
to final words whispered through cracks
to last strokes of blue skin
to twenty past eight.

Some goodbyes can a outstretch a lifetime
like how I could have stayed all night
kissing your cheek, holding your hand
how leaving would have always been too soon.

I wish that you never got on that train
now all I have left of you are tracks.

‘So happy I could die’.

Hurtling through the velvet skyline
this moment stretches, making us infinite.
Lungs too filled with air to cope
to even blink
to even mutter.
Here, I could lay my body.

Green crystal waters and lofty pines;
purple mountains eclipse Continental sun.
We soak our skin until everything floods out.
Letting the water pull us in
just enough.
Here, you and I could lay our bodies.

Glittered words and glowing lights
eyes wide in a fixed bloom
they speak words no one can hear,
dancing alone in a sea of pulsating figures.
Here, we could lay our bodies.

And if it weren’t for outstretched hands
and garlands of long-cherished names;
If I could just sink
without leaving an unexplained grave
I would lay my body here,
Drenched in this golden exuberance.

(image via tumblr)

Rhythm.

There was the way that she listened to music: she would throw her head back and grin as if her head rested on every last note; she would exhale almost like every last breath weighed of lead, her head recoiling with each plunge of air. Then there was the was the way that his body became alive. His sides pulsated with every riff, his finger tips plunging deep into each beat. Everything about him began to resemble electricity; everything was sharp; everything was dynamic.

And it seemed like light streaked behind each movement, staining the dark night behind around them. What used to be black was now a phosphorescent blur. Shrouded in a halcyon web of sound and movement, it was if every last syllable hurtled them down that rain-soaked motorway.  She continued to keep her dipped chin tilted, feeling the soak of each chord run freely across her skin, pouring deep around her neck and welling into her back. He kept moving, sporadically, but with a fluid rhythm as track after track became the new theme tune .

Much like the way that you would notice other customers in a candlelit restaurant, they were quite aware of each other’s presence, but were equally far away, enveloped by those waves of symphony. Their eyes were dreaming of a far away place; their ears alive and awake in a wave of electronica. So the music continued to well and flood with each muscle clench, reaching a deafening loudness with each heavy exhale.

(image via weheartit)

The North Star.

My summer nights are christened with your name, your smile adorning these rolling fields with garlands of light.  And I continue to spend my summer days falling fast into these wisps of straw, with absolutely no intention of getting up. With every beam of your rose-stained lips and every glow of your tangled laughter, these cold bones grow warmer, and blue flesh becomes flushed.

And, for the first time in a long time, I feel alive.

But I can’t have you: you are a Michelangelo and I’m a thrift shop steal. You are a symphony and I’m a broken string. You are a shining glory fallen upon my calloused mistakes. I am more than damaged goods; I am a fountain of broken glass.

I may look, but I cannot possibly touch.

But I don’t mind, because people have their places and relationships have their time. I would rather gaze across this gliding sunset than never experience it at all. And I will continue to return to these summer nights and have you bless every passing star which blankets us. Maybe one day my fractures will become joins, and maybe I will become a vessel that no longer leaks. Maybe then my ink-stained hands will be able to clasp something as tender as you.

Nevertheless, it is beyond a pleasure to witness your great orchestra, even if I am but a blurred face in a bustling crowd.

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