Was Icarus's Fall So Terrible After All? He Would've Died With A Smile On His Face, The Sun All Beautiful

Don't kiss me yet,

Let our minds wander first, together,

Let our souls touch,

And then perhaps,

I will love you too.

the water engulfed without a moon to reflect. Ashes from desperate cries left burning magnesium through the rues. Starry hands sought the earth, and withdrew as if scalded, scorned whispers echoing through the lifeless home. The heavens grieved and stroked the rivers of fire, flowing ever so serenely now, sobbed harder and washed off memories to a place better deserved. the once bright lanterns, the sole conspirators of curtained stages, no longer remained diminished but choked underneath the clouds. The repressing haze, one which burned your breath, dissipated under the violent fog. The deep violet skies rumbled, quiet in regret, flooded the builds again and again, till life grew anew. The rushing sound never ceased, till the scorched red cleared the ruins brown, till the crushed whispers smelt home. Eventually, a blue, much like your eyes emerged through the tar clouds, and the broken hands gave way to crawling flowers. Amidst the drenched rubble, the soft footsteps of a lone writer remained as lone witness to Pompeii's apology.

and when the writer types out the final full stop, we stop too. for you and I, were only a 'we' within these numbered pages bound by a frail paperclip. what we search for is eternal, and the writer tried, tried so hard but I guess we weren't just meant the be, the fates cut our string, the paperclip was bound to break.

You can't drag me away from cities, no matter the serenity of small towns and farmhouses. Something unspoken about it always attracts me, so many lives, bursting with energy, each fast and bright in its own galaxy, none too similar to the other or to mine, and I, a lone observer, will never get enough of that feeling.

Walking through the machines, They’d see blued bones Every place you held me in. Bated breaths from them peeling The suitcase we let gather dust, How come we’re on the same flight, Just in different terminals? The plane which took off before mine, carried the longing with it, And what is your love without the yearning mixed in it? Not the shaking when we landed, Face first in deep so called regret, Ignored the rumbling of shoved voices, What could be better than your heart’s erratic noises, When I pass through the crimes of unforgivable circumstances?

writing is just letting your wounds bleed on paper.

So much spilt blood on these lands, isn’t it hard to believe such sweet scarlet flowers grown on those same places? Every time you weave those ruby-red flowers into my hair, do those lovers who never got such bliss sigh? Separated by time but brought together again when our hands entwine, do you still believe that everything we have isn’t the exact same shade of scarlet?

fingers crossed hoping in some foreign quadrant the variables might be altered, the five miles walked would never seem so minute then. dawning epiphanies graphing when our footsteps might align again, not defined when I asked, what that was, doesn't that answer seem so eerily familiar? almost as if lipped in another lifetime maybe? will it just be first impressions over the same highways? how will the fog ever clear, the lines ever scaled, if the puzzled tomorrows remain unsolved? rather we fall like raindrops in race, with no formula to grasp the path not quite destined to run but fated for eventual indifference.

cut my hand on an angel’s halo, he said he’d never seen anybody bleed, what happens when the blood’s just red and not a wholesome tragedy? thought I couldn’t stand your final flight, reliving every sigh while crossing the road, till I wasn’t supposed to be there anymore. guarded my heart with his, but what happens when the knife doesn’t exist? and what happens when the ribs pierce the heart? so crushing of a hug, left only to red seeping internally, while fathoming the countless leaving, and bruised knees from hoping for the heaven you met me in.

Yes, your heart stopped at 5:05 am. You still have so much time left across the world. Frida kahlo painted flowers so that they would not die, my darling muse, how can I ever accept that you're gone?