We were illusionists painting with all our favourite colours. Enamored by your elaborate hoaxes and your divine stories that wrapped me in cloaks of magic. Watching the fat snow flakes fall tonight, I take white to the walls of my mind and erase all those splendid words, the illusion warps and tears. Through the masks and layers that bind truth, I can taste the flavours of your emotions and let them wear my heart. I used to keep you on a pedestal, an entangled web of passion and true love. I recall your eyes now and unravel the biological stems, the trees that line your iris and whisper ancient names. Small puncture wounds deflate the illusions, porous bones of the past crumble under our feet and it doesn’t hurt as much this time. Our memories united and dissolving salt blocks of acceptance. Tidy tombs push through the earth and I feel closer to you now then when I thought we belonged together. These roles we play to wrap our limbs in sacred symbols no longer serve, we are too busy collecting ourselves to be concerned with our death of union. Evolving our foundations and capturing the essence of what once was, now we breathe in the hollowed air and allow the raw record to settle. Goodbyes don’t belong here because I will carry the sanctioned pieces of our divinity in my heart and connection is eternal. What matters is our choices, to fade illusions in to subtle waves of harmony and crisp autumn leaves of death. We belong to no one but ourselves. Our fingers intertwine to twist the electric currents into a sensory photograph, enough to carry for the rest of our lives and think only of the depth and the wisdom we created together.
*created in the past