Atelier.
Another February, another goodbye. Okay, yeah sure once more but with music! The Ostara kind, you know what I am talking about, it’s only fitting. Sure why not, it was March just a few seconds ago.
But of course, that was before I knew you. So is this. All this, yes. Though tea first, I’d prefer it that way. In fact, I insist you insist on doing that. You brew it, pour it, cup the mug, cradle it keep it warm, keep it interesting, hold the ranks, you watch, I’ll drink it.
It is my turn to take advantage of you. So chop chop, get a move on. Put on the stone kettle on that wood stove. That tea is not going to make itself. Don’t rock the boat, watch your fingers, just get on. Get on the boat. This moon reminds me of home, looking at it could be about that, it is reminding me of the ruins that didn't ruin us. But the ruinous sun, damn the sun looks like it is a little in love with you. Still? It is burning just a little harder for you. Damn the sun, the shadows are thickening. They are unfurling. They are readable and stark, but unforgiving.
Tell me something; what was the point of anointing the moon as a knight for this night, when it won’t come at you. For you. It Follows. You. Not because you are mobile and it is unmoving where ever it is. Tell me, I really wanna know, though something tells me you won't be telling me anything. But when you move, it moves along with you, coming down to you, coming for you, following you. And I? Well, I’d rather look for the sun. But the moon is never too far away from the likes of us, burning between us like a random thought.
It’s raw and tender. Don’t touch it. Haha, you sneaky little schemer, you don’t have to show me the way, that way inside that way. I quite agree with your moon that bears your name, I concur.
You are still one of the most beautiful things I didn’t see. Can’t unsee your form, though you are formless now. The girl you were, reflecting the girl you are now. Though there are no mirrors here, cracked or otherwise. The glass that’s still between our worlds remembers the touch of your paintbrushes, your bizarre strokes, the not so gleaming glass remembers, all of them. You are still a skilled painter. Why wouldn’t you be?
In this static age, you are the only chalk artist left. Your little red tongue is still red. Stick it out. We are not there yet. Not yet. Keep talking even if you are silent. Want this. Other words evoke other emotions but all the words are about our home.
Though this is hardly your suicide note. I have them and they love me. Words. Brittle but words all the same. All the black sails are up. What can I say, when this started, this was about you. Stay. Let me insult you. Remember how the mermaids had loved me last fall. They did things of quite another nature to you, do you remember that? Not feeling so gifted now, are you? I really don’t want to imagine you again. But. I can imagine you breathing underwater. I can still see your skin under all the covers, slimy, grimy, and aglow. Your eye held a look of otherworldliness then. Your hair awash with spent moonlight, you head moving. Your thighs gleaming with different thoughts. You were begrimed as a whole graffiti; stuffed with too many of my feelings. Which is good, I no longer feel anything. Numb as you were when you were alive.
I licked something of yours, a memory, fleeting but yours. Your fingers still taste of you. I find that to be funny because that couldn’t possibly be, not after all this time in that darkened tomb. All the bandages we had wrapped you in are moldy now, rotting away, peeling off your body of lies. All those ribbons cut from the last damask robe you wore are corrosive now. It is no longer any fun, unwrapping you is crude now. We don’t possess the Rosetta Stone to make any sense of you.
But the toxicity of your ink is still there on your fingers and it’s heavy quite like you. Just like your dreams your ink has weight. I miss your sunless weight though you are weightless now. Where you are now though, you are not on any diner’s menu. The safety of your womb isn’t an option now. Oh sublime fehu, I can’t breathe. Stolen. You are an arsonist. Why are you still here? What is this? Your mouth is not a question anymore. The dead are in love with it and the corpses of trees yearn for it. Your stupid inkwell heart keeps pumping something liquidy into you liquefying you further. I keep staring, I cannot help but. Your mouth keeps spilling the blackness of the stars. Your funerary breath is delicious. You are diffusing something peculiar, something woodsy. Copses in my head are doused with it, dark and wet. My mind, my poor mind cannot quite contain your entire corpus, the whole of it is too huge. But you are still in the air, amidst the white noise, floating in the air. A certain pine scent. It smells suspiciously like pittosporum. You are filling the air and what’s left of our world with it. But everything is wet about these woods. Bury the gods deep in here. This isn’t what I wanted.
Why is the company of nice smelling women thought to be a good thing? Poor escape that is. They’d ruin your mind and empty you out just the same.
Suddenly, I was looking at her. She was standing so close, her actual actuality even better than her imagery, simpler than all these words. She is nonugly, kind of. She's beautiful in a way that she could only be contained within unknown paintings, unpainted by even more obscure artists, not even being painted. But right now, she was out of those frames. Standing there, between her two worlds, gracefully existing in front of me. Her breath resinous, so stale but in my face. Empty but Smiling, bumping into me every so often, can't quite stay in one place, flickering out of my mind. She was really breathless, out of breath, quivering and breathing like a long time Time Traveler no longer traveling through time. She was timeless yet immediate. And she was telling me something so timely. She was saying. "It's okay. Breathe. You don't need another war. You don't have to fight now. This is one fight you needn't fighting. This fight you could do without fighting at all." That's when I knew I wouldn't be finishing this. I won't. Let's murder these trees together. But she knows. I have a certain affinity for all ghosts not around me. Though only one remains my favorite. And she's right there standing in the corner of this atelier her very own attic grinning but refusing to haunt me.
And maybe, this is still July, maybe. Maybe in this July mermaids with legs are still drowning in my tub a year later, sinking, screeching, mutely screaming their silent screams, through this muted silence, dying slowly dying their watery deaths. Maybe July is mermaids month and may it remain so forever. But February will always be a month for ghosts and for farewells. A month of ghosts and of farewells. But do remember and keep this in mind. A Writer's farewell is never a goodbye.
But then she was fading from this page, this paper so frail, her last night seeping into her and she was saying to me, no one should haunt you but me.
But of course, that was before I knew you. So is this. All this, yes. Though tea first, I’d prefer it that way. In fact, I insist you insist on doing that. You brew it, pour it, cup the mug, cradle it keep it warm, keep it interesting, hold the ranks, you watch, I’ll drink it.
It is my turn to take advantage of you. So chop chop, get a move on. Put on the stone kettle on that wood stove. That tea is not going to make itself. Don’t rock the boat, watch your fingers, just get on. Get on the boat. This moon reminds me of home, looking at it could be about that, it is reminding me of the ruins that didn't ruin us. But the ruinous sun, damn the sun looks like it is a little in love with you. Still? It is burning just a little harder for you. Damn the sun, the shadows are thickening. They are unfurling. They are readable and stark, but unforgiving.
Tell me something; what was the point of anointing the moon as a knight for this night, when it won’t come at you. For you. It Follows. You. Not because you are mobile and it is unmoving where ever it is. Tell me, I really wanna know, though something tells me you won't be telling me anything. But when you move, it moves along with you, coming down to you, coming for you, following you. And I? Well, I’d rather look for the sun. But the moon is never too far away from the likes of us, burning between us like a random thought.
It’s raw and tender. Don’t touch it. Haha, you sneaky little schemer, you don’t have to show me the way, that way inside that way. I quite agree with your moon that bears your name, I concur.
You are still one of the most beautiful things I didn’t see. Can’t unsee your form, though you are formless now. The girl you were, reflecting the girl you are now. Though there are no mirrors here, cracked or otherwise. The glass that’s still between our worlds remembers the touch of your paintbrushes, your bizarre strokes, the not so gleaming glass remembers, all of them. You are still a skilled painter. Why wouldn’t you be?
In this static age, you are the only chalk artist left. Your little red tongue is still red. Stick it out. We are not there yet. Not yet. Keep talking even if you are silent. Want this. Other words evoke other emotions but all the words are about our home.
Though this is hardly your suicide note. I have them and they love me. Words. Brittle but words all the same. All the black sails are up. What can I say, when this started, this was about you. Stay. Let me insult you. Remember how the mermaids had loved me last fall. They did things of quite another nature to you, do you remember that? Not feeling so gifted now, are you? I really don’t want to imagine you again. But. I can imagine you breathing underwater. I can still see your skin under all the covers, slimy, grimy, and aglow. Your eye held a look of otherworldliness then. Your hair awash with spent moonlight, you head moving. Your thighs gleaming with different thoughts. You were begrimed as a whole graffiti; stuffed with too many of my feelings. Which is good, I no longer feel anything. Numb as you were when you were alive.
I licked something of yours, a memory, fleeting but yours. Your fingers still taste of you. I find that to be funny because that couldn’t possibly be, not after all this time in that darkened tomb. All the bandages we had wrapped you in are moldy now, rotting away, peeling off your body of lies. All those ribbons cut from the last damask robe you wore are corrosive now. It is no longer any fun, unwrapping you is crude now. We don’t possess the Rosetta Stone to make any sense of you.
But the toxicity of your ink is still there on your fingers and it’s heavy quite like you. Just like your dreams your ink has weight. I miss your sunless weight though you are weightless now. Where you are now though, you are not on any diner’s menu. The safety of your womb isn’t an option now. Oh sublime fehu, I can’t breathe. Stolen. You are an arsonist. Why are you still here? What is this? Your mouth is not a question anymore. The dead are in love with it and the corpses of trees yearn for it. Your stupid inkwell heart keeps pumping something liquidy into you liquefying you further. I keep staring, I cannot help but. Your mouth keeps spilling the blackness of the stars. Your funerary breath is delicious. You are diffusing something peculiar, something woodsy. Copses in my head are doused with it, dark and wet. My mind, my poor mind cannot quite contain your entire corpus, the whole of it is too huge. But you are still in the air, amidst the white noise, floating in the air. A certain pine scent. It smells suspiciously like pittosporum. You are filling the air and what’s left of our world with it. But everything is wet about these woods. Bury the gods deep in here. This isn’t what I wanted.
Why is the company of nice smelling women thought to be a good thing? Poor escape that is. They’d ruin your mind and empty you out just the same.
Suddenly, I was looking at her. She was standing so close, her actual actuality even better than her imagery, simpler than all these words. She is nonugly, kind of. She's beautiful in a way that she could only be contained within unknown paintings, unpainted by even more obscure artists, not even being painted. But right now, she was out of those frames. Standing there, between her two worlds, gracefully existing in front of me. Her breath resinous, so stale but in my face. Empty but Smiling, bumping into me every so often, can't quite stay in one place, flickering out of my mind. She was really breathless, out of breath, quivering and breathing like a long time Time Traveler no longer traveling through time. She was timeless yet immediate. And she was telling me something so timely. She was saying. "It's okay. Breathe. You don't need another war. You don't have to fight now. This is one fight you needn't fighting. This fight you could do without fighting at all." That's when I knew I wouldn't be finishing this. I won't. Let's murder these trees together. But she knows. I have a certain affinity for all ghosts not around me. Though only one remains my favorite. And she's right there standing in the corner of this atelier her very own attic grinning but refusing to haunt me.
And maybe, this is still July, maybe. Maybe in this July mermaids with legs are still drowning in my tub a year later, sinking, screeching, mutely screaming their silent screams, through this muted silence, dying slowly dying their watery deaths. Maybe July is mermaids month and may it remain so forever. But February will always be a month for ghosts and for farewells. A month of ghosts and of farewells. But do remember and keep this in mind. A Writer's farewell is never a goodbye.
But then she was fading from this page, this paper so frail, her last night seeping into her and she was saying to me, no one should haunt you but me.
No comments have been added yet.
