i keep having these visions. i make the most of it. i think, they feel, like memories. i dont understand. i come and go, in my dreams he walks out of his mangled corpse and into my space, he reaches into me through my air- i dont walk into it. he steps through and i feel his hair brush my cheekbone. standing before me with his collarbone exposed and its warm as if he had never gone from me. the void in my heart is filled and i prosper and relax my shoulders into his hands that wont touch me. looks at me in the eyes. and he was as familiar as a distant memory from another world. so as i try to conjure my voice i wake up into this place and i feel empty. and then i see him again and its not a lucid dream by any means.
aire soy. when i was a child i stayed over at my cousins house to sleep, to take care of my brother. they were close friends and i was the oldest and only girl. i stayed in a separate, moth bitten and dusted room. i found an old cd player and, in the earliest hours of the next day, fingered the numbers, the little disc on it, twirling the buglike antenna sprouting from it like a thin spore, looking for a sound. and it arrived into my quiet room, lit by two lights, both warm as a candle but one twitching. it was the most beautiful melody i had ever found, so i scrambled to look for a pen and paper to jot down the lyrics, or what i could make out through the fuzzy veil of the static. and i did. i went home and looked for variations of the lyrics on my family computer until i found it and it quickly became a staple in me, a nickel inside of the fountain of my mind, my ether.
im lost in an endless void, floating through airless space, a speck of dust in that old room i havent been in for years, after looking again a couple of times the cd player had gone. disappeared into the fabric of the space and time vortex that made up that world. everything else, exactly as i had left it. the bed made in the particular way i made them, with a flap on the top and the pillows fluffed over. the twitching lightbulb now completely null. the cd player was gone.
i dont think he is real, i think he was years ago. i feel like it was someplace thirty years ago. maybe more. they mentioned it in my music academy- i was born to be there, sing for them, not for whoever could catch a slight resonance of my echoing growl.
he ran his cold fist through my back, upward over my neck. sunken eyes like hot stones at a rocky beach. the ends of that hair fine as mold fuzz. floated like silk on the wind.
i call for him to be back, listen to his voice. listen to his advice, to what he remembers i am, to what he knows of me so maybe i can make a return into that innocence. i dont think i can. i think innocence is not lost but broken, or stolen and destroyed by a lack of knowledge on the care of such particularly delicate creature.
does he remember me? or do i see the vision of my own memory, an ancient language we shared but has now been forgotten to time by all but me, for death parted him from it and now i am the sole archivist, the lonely, mistress of our wuthering heights awaiting a ghost, the last botanist that knows about the correct care of the plants in this secret garden, where i buried my old love under an ancient strain of willow tree, under a strange valley flower the color of powder.
his name i barely know but its somewhere, an angel who keeps from me any power i could hold. to guide me and mock me. for now he and i keep rocking on, in the ballroom of my mind, or otherwise, old love, dear dead dove- may you not rest as long as i am living. you said i killed you- haunt me then. the murdered do haunt their murderers. i believe i know that ghosts have wandered the earth. be with me always, take any form, drive me mad. only do not leave me in this abyss, where i cannot find you, oh, God! It has been unutterable- i cannot live without my life, i cannot live without my soul.
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