Howl

night-of-the-living-dead-girl

 

There’s something so familiar in the way the wind creeps through the keyhole. It’s in how I remember the smallest things that shouldn’t be important yet occupy my mind so readily. It goes beyond all I know, and from time to time when my train of thought drifts to far away places, I sense the answers I seek so close at hand. Clutching old photographs, your smile speaks yet I can never hear what it says. Through time travel and blind determination, these obstacles shall be torn to shreds. Sing to me through the stalks of corn. Come through wormholes and shooting stars and place your mouth on my ear and whisper all I want to know. No memories, only the future coming back to show us what we’re missing. There’s no such thing as the past, for we exist everywhere and anywhere at the same time. Spinning circles of delight as the waves crash against our limbs, there’s only the music of a lone piano to keep us company. Tiger teeth and whiplash. A spastic uterus and the many faces of a lover on the verge of a breakdown. Revelations on St Marys Street, and the way the breeze still comes around even though it’s been so long. Love is such a boring word. Raped of meaning and devoid of value, yet somewhere in the universe, it still carries the weight of a thousand stars as we embrace against all odds. Don’t stop dreaming, and I won’t stop believing that things will one day fall into place. Catch yourself mid-sentence, and think of what it means to be real. Study the patterns of broken hearts, and realise how simple it all is. Strip these days to the bone, and surrender yourself to what can’t be seen. Image is what stirs our desires, but it should be left well alone if we’re to escape these crimson tides. Hear me howl. Strike a light, and ignite what it is between us that others will never glimpse.

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