Wednesday, April 9, 2014

Written for Spoken #2: See You In Heaven by Raandjua

"Like a rose in full bloom, life's thorns and flowers prickle and pierce the veins to my heart

My tear glands have dried up like a once delicate flower in the Namib Dessert on a cold cold winter night

Mya's white pearls intertwined between my fingers remind me of our time together and how we used to make each other smile

Summer rain-red robots-screeching tires...the ear-piercing sound of ambulance sirens in the dark of the night, came as if, from the mouth of the angel of death

Summer rain-red robots-screeching tires…and just like that, the love of my life was gone

Fallen autumn pebbles on the sidewalk awaken visions of blood-drenched leaves

Memories of song and dance are ever-present realities, in a reality, devoid of life

Those mourning lost loved ones and lost love are the subjects of my envy
Tears run down their cheeks and I reach over to wipe them away, as I pray, that their tears, never run away

For once they do, then they too will one day be standing here, before you, enveloped by regret and anguish at the words that remain unsaid

Three little words are all it takes.

Each word on its own is an empty vessel, but as a trio they have the power to un-break and heal the most broken of hearts and move mountains twice the size of Kilimanjaro.

Here I Am.

Unmoving, unmoved, the vowels begin to form on my lips, I welcome the sight of the onrushing bus…as I slowly mouth the words: "I love you"

Like the petals upon a dying rose I know the end is near

She may have never received an invite, but she can never accuse me of not having been a gracious host

My soul is your home. Your home is my soul.

The act of being alive is but a continuation of breaths

That which intercepts the breaths is living

I do not remember when last a meaningful event intercepted these breaths-DO YOU?

Few ever consider it, even less follow through

Most look down upon those who do it and never care to just ask "WHY?"

Sure, it may not be the perfect solution.

But, who cares about perfection?

Perfection, is an illusion that will remain unfulfilled many a tomorrow.

Fuck perfection.

What I need TODAY, what I need NOW, is not the perfect solution.

All I need is a means to an end.

Here I Stand.

Unmoving, unmoved, the vowels begin to form on my lips I welcome the sight of the onrushing bus and I whisper softly, slowly, quietly: Till We Meet Again, Goodbye"

~Raandjua "Ra"

WTF #6477968: I Can Only Hope

Sitting here.

I am trying my utmost to get my brain to refrain from letting your image infatuate it so. I am monitoring my breathing patterns in hopes that my heart slows down, so that it might forget to beat for you. I am trying to do impossible things to take my life back. I am failing successfully. I will hope that you miss me too though. I hope you miss me with all your senses.

When you go about your day, and happen to come across a photograph, or you read my name somewhere. I can only hope that your eyes lock. I pray that your mind presses play and displays our movie of memories in such high definition; it robs you of your breath. I wish the molecules in your tears would race each other, causing a stampede in your ducts, ready to erupt and soak whatever it is you were looking at.

I can only hope that when you hear a song we both like, your ears fuzz. Shiver even. I so wish your body aches for mine so bad that you would squeeze your pillows so hard, you were eventually hugging yourself. You should let out an involuntary gasp when you hear my name mentioned, and it should echo all day, rhythmically pounding against your eardrums until you feel the need to scream it. Like you screamed it.

Should someone manage to touch you like I touched you or if some other lips have been kissing you where I've kissed, I can only hope that your skin feels the intruder and reports the act of treason. Or your mouth should forget its place and scream my name. Like you screamed it. I pray your torso reenacts the pleasures I made you feel. The laughter in a tickle. The adrenaline in being picked up. My teeth on your neck. My hands on your back. 

Beer, Coffee, Cigarettes and Popcorn. Our favorite things. I can only hope that when taste them now, you become so beside yourself that you would give me skyf or attempt to explain some wild theory, peering at me over the rim a glass four times the size of your hands. I wish that when you realize I’m not there, your eyebrows sink down to your eyes as the kraken inside you is released. You should break stuff. You should love the sound of shattering glass.

I can hope that you get to smell me sometimes. Maybe on that T shirt or that jacket you still have. Or you could go nuts with the tester of the cologne I wore. I can only hope that you would ignore the strange way people stare, when you’re standing there with your wrist stuck to your nose. I can hope that, your fingers tire and cramp up from making fists with my shirt buried in your hands. You would inhale more than you should, just so you can be a little breathless.

Sitting here; this is what I mean when I say I miss you. I can only hope you mean the same when you say it back.