A Raconteur's Ramblings

It’s well past the midnight. The smaller hand of the vintage grandfather clock, almost as vintage as your heart, is about to complete its 4th and a half revolution of the day. My city, sullen and in slumber, wishes not to be perturbed anymore. So does my weary mind, but it refuses to shut off. I dream while being half-asleep, and sink, sink, sink.. 

You are more vivid in my subconscious than in reality. Almost lively, as clear as a hallucination. The paintbrushes picked up by my layers are as bold as Monet's strokes, as colourful as Rothko, as pointed as Seurat, as detailed as Botticelli. You are painted, and alive. Maybe alive. Or painted. Difficult to distinguish at times. 

I touch your scars. The mole beneath your left nostril. The birthmark on your left temple. The hidden scars, that you're afraid to showcase. You're afraid, timid as a homeless bird. You're stripped off of your garb of pretence that protects your tender, broken heart. I touch your scars, caress them. Your scars touch me too. You're not you anymore. You are a body full of scars, a mind full of trauma, a life full of pasts affecting the presence. Your cindery existence, a testament to the existence of fire, recounts the story of Icarus. Your wings have melted. You fall, and fall, and fall. You are drowning. You are looking for someone. That someone isn't me. It never was. Or maybe it was, I can't really tell. It's been epochs and eons since then. Almost an eternity. 

Your scars lighten up. My tears touch your scars. Your wounds, that are long unattended. Perhaps it never was attended in the first place. I kiss your wounds, as dearly as Adam kissed Eve when he saw her for the first time, ever. Kiss speaks of empathy, compassion. A language that binds our soul. We kiss, and kiss, and kiss - as if that's the end of the World. An apocalyptic kiss. A kiss, that Klimt painted in yellow. A kiss, that Scorsese crafted with fiery cinders. Cinders, that speak of your existence. A testament to the fire within. 

You heal. Your healing heals me. My healing heals you. Our sorrows and pains and woes touch each other. Our cosmic presence transcends into the realm of ethereal nothingness. The metamorphosis of macabre melancholia into nihilistic numbness. We are floating, and floating, and floating. You wish to stretch your hands out. My hands are closer as well, so close that you can touch mine if you want. But they never meet. We never meet. We go back to our own abysses again. Abyss, that we've turned into home. With a whimper, not with a bang - we explode. The sound of the explosion barely reaches anyone. Not even our own ears.

And our city, your city, my city, wishes not to be perturbed of its deep, dark, deadly slumber. And the vintage grandfather clock, almost as vintage as your heart, keeps ticking.