My fingers made blue by love's agony trembled, turned chapters of fratricidal war that chilled my heart. I warmed myself with the fate of lovers who by way of farewell revelled in one final kiss before dying. I read, I read, my pupils starving, my soul opening like a gulf. I discovered the horror of happiness, the mud of lies, tired glories.
A book, brain open like a sky, road plunging into childhood.
Childhood, another name for infinity.
In my book tree, I imagined happy endings for tragic stories and for happy stories, harrowing endings. I turned pages and reality turned away from itself. I shook up life, indifferent to the pain I hoped to inflict.
I let pain wash over me like a tidal wave's sweeping epoch and combated it with the sweetness of despair.
I let my love wash away in leaps and bounds, a far sight from the ordinary dilemma of letting our passion play hide-and-seek with us.
I lie in the blues, the blues of agony, but crimson from hues unacknowledged.
I am love's dying song, on an evening when the music has gained the upper hand, and swayed chordal angst within my idiomatic soul.
Tonight, I will belong to that music and let myself be whole again. Tonight, I will be alone, but not lonely. Tonight my heart will clash with my head and I shall let my heart win.