Part 1 — Floating

Azerbaijan, Spring, 2019, Photo by Alla Khuseyn

I will tell you a story about tomorrow. I ask of you that this story remains between you and me, for the walls may hear the whisperings that join the two of us. The bleak silence holds lots of space for words unspoken and thoughts too loud. Sometimes you can hear them if you listen closely; the mumblings of the walls. The soft hum of their voices echoes through the chamber in our minds, a voiceless paranoia hooking us in. I have heard what they say and have seen the visions they conjure. Too vivid for the simple shadow of my thoughts; the ones fabricated by the torment in me. They tell me of the way Tomorrow feels, keeping me up at night. Their mumbles no longer hushed tones, but rather, as loud as the rumble of the earth bellows at my frail feet; dragging me into their calloused and dark embrace.

Tomorrow feels like the way golden light beams down from beyond the atmosphere. It kisses my body from head to toe, warming my skin. My feet are submerged in tan sand, marking their territory. I hear the waves crashing against the shore, claiming its home. It is a tide too strong to be held captive and away from its lover. Always coming back to its destined fate, the deep kissing, the shallow, the ballad of the lover’s curse. I look up and it is night. The moon cascading across the blackness. A king in its throne. The stars are interlaced in a shadow that reminds me of a distant memory, of the incandescent lights illuminating the earth and protecting the heavens. Tied down by my feet, I am bound to the ocean water created by the moon. I am the universe’s favorite child. Moonchild sent from above, desperate to be back in my kingdom.

My hair is tangled in knots and twists I do not understand, yet your fingers are reorganizing the constellations formed on my head; the braids of solace unwind, and so do I. a gentleman’s touch. A sailor with his ship. I feel the ease in the shift, my shoulder blades expand, wings ripping through my back- aching to be released. White clouds enveloping the skies. They are heavier than you might think. As dense as the rotten ground you were born from. Now, I am in the air. Flying. There is something strange in the way you’re looking at me. I wonder, do you want to come along?

I fill my pockets with opals and shells and submerge myself into the eternal bath of youth. The liquid engulfing my skin, parading into my chest, setting up camp between the cages of my ribs. The weight in my pockets pull me further down, down, down, deep into the depths of my despairs. I do not take a breath; I do not need to — for gills have formed on the side of my chest, ripping away at my ripe skin. I am swimming through the vast expanse. Pushing away the pieces of decay torn away by the tears of sorrow and pain, the ones I hid within the forest of trees I left behind. The sky cried sad tears, and it dripped into my head. My mind felt the cleanse first, drowning my agony into empty nothings. It was the first thing to go numb.

Tomorrow feels like you and I sitting across from one another. Eyes are locked, we are studying the secrets hidden behind our irises. We do not breathe, afraid to let each other go. You are the oxygen I crave, and I am yours to wholly devour. Our bodies do not touch, yet our souls are intertwined in the desperate dance we memorized. The one engrained in the palm of our hands. Clinging on to another in the midst of empty spaces and meaningless crowds, we are the ones who they speak of in hushed tones, captivated by our misery. Our spirits sing a song of our damned fate, our heartbeats echoing the increasing pulse of the tempo. Speeding. Too quick. We are moving too fast. The meaningless crowd becomes a blur of crimson and gray, and the empty spaces form a barricade. My vision fades and I am sinking. Why did you smile when you let me go?

My lungs are black and burnt and I should not be able to breathe but the sun and water have given birth to a plant and suddenly I am in a field of trees and my lungs are sitting next to me.

Tomorrow is a dream, and I am still sleeping.

Part 2 — Gnawing

Azerbaijan, Spring, 2019 (Photo by Alla Khuseyn)

I can feel you, trembling and breaking down to the rotting earth that lays beneath your stable feet. Every step you take plants a seed in the ashen earth, sprouting a flower almost as delicate as you. Baby’s breath matches the freckles on your face, lovely and small. Your lips are ancient and are made of silver and gold; whispering the shadow of the stories your eyes tell so violently. The way the soft groan of your melody echoes in mind as though it was a chamber bound with secrets untold and words unwritten. You spoke of ember and ash, and each syllable uttered from your loudmouth was a harsh stroke of your pen in my soul. Telling me deceits and forfeits, a lovely sacrifice for your throne.

I can feel the way your mind feeds off the pain in your soul because you hold your shoulders as though they are lifting the weight of oceans. Carrying creatures only you have seen. The deep blue sea reflecting in your eyes. Ever-changing. And, when you’re sad, I feel the gnawing of your fingers on the harsh soil, ripping weeds deep out of the earth. Staining your hands, the color of deep ember that matches the bottomless pit of your irises, only covered by the soft lids that help you rest with exhaustion. Your fingernails tremble from the sight. A subtle pain for temporary gratification.

Your palms carry sigils of the world; each scar marking a newfound beginning. You remember all too well. You place your hands over your soft lips, a contrasting fate of life and death. A feeling stirring deep in my bones for you are etched into my skin. A deep probe lining my body, slowly stepping out of its shell. I can feel the way you drag your lifeless corpse under the thundering rain, the flowers sprouted now decaying in the broth of the earth. Your fingers swiped clean of the dirt that would reside there.

Don’t you know not to pick apart something you love? No wonder it is rose petals that separate one life for another. The one’s bestowed to you on each century your name is muttered under silenced figures; the ones that encompass your galleries, high and mighty. Crimson and emerald. There are faces I cannot distinguish and people I do not know.

Is this the destiny I face? The one with an eternity of uncertainty hanging on my sleeve. Questioning your next move as though I am a slab of wood in your pit of fire.

Am I the next to burn?

Your marred hands merge with mine and our soft lips interlock. There are words untold between the crevices of my teeth. A hindering satisfaction, knowing something you do not. Yet, somehow, you know.

How do you know?

How did you know to summon the beast with your gold and silver? Devouring it in one gulp. You are flaunting your wealth inside of me. Mocking my spirit. You do not understand the beast, for it is now growing in you. Feeding on your sorrow. The seeds your feet planted cringe in dismay. What have you done?

Now, you are carrying your lifeless corpse, with hollow eyes and sunken cheeks yet you are abundantly alive. For under the marble and pale padding you call skin, you are fickle and frail. Easily cut up to be feasted on by the beast. Baby’s breath in an ocean of weeds.

Do you feel it, the way your heartaches and longs to be held?

Do you feel yourself drifting away?

Why have you picked me apart, only to walk away when you see the ghost of yourself staring back into your empty soul? Perhaps this is what you deserve. A life of endless artifacts, the ones you collect in your too full galleries, for endless, empty nothings. Maybe this is what you deserve. For doubting the beast within. This is exactly what you deserve. Now your lips are still ancient but are made of rust and decay. A tarnished soul branded on the bright earth.

Do you feel it too?

Part 3 — Blooming

The burden of your misfortune rests heavily on my heart. It has laid its sheets and fluffed its pillows, ready for its eternal sleep. You have tainted my mind with your words of silver and gold; clouding my visions with parcels from the past. Letters wrapped in embroidered chrysanthemums. Carnations stamped on the corners of the envelopes, holding on to the story I so desperately tried to keep. Strange how you come and go; always here, in the same place. Swimming in the same sea of eternity that we began in. The one too heavy to hold back. The tide too strong for me to manage. A whisper among the beckoning wails of the wraiths, calling me in. They drag my feet along the sand, and pull me down, down, down.

When you saw me on the grass, standing in front of the body of water, you picked the opals from my pockets, and gently placed them along the smooth surface of my back. You were careful not to burn your fingers on my bare flesh. I was stuck under boulders and rocks and I wondered how much I have to give the earth to keep breathing in its wake, but it was you who picked me up from where I fell through your grasp and held me tighter. Now the beast has fallen asleep inside of you, and we are back to where we began. In the galleries and the skies, we are the stars shooting for the earth in a longing escape. Our torment subsided and muted. We are back.

I have one final story to share.

The flowers didn’t bloom until their beds touched you, with a whimper and a sigh, the ground turned lilac and blue. Wrapping themselves along with the breach of your eyelids, careful enough not to wake you. They are warm against your cold and pale skin. I am asleep next to you, stuck and frozen in time. My ember and ashen eyes sealed shut by thick fog within. I am gasping for air and my fingers gnaw on the thawing earth, but you do not see. Leaving me here to rot while you lay soft and sound asleep on the harsh soil which watched you weep tears of calloused grime and ache, yet your eyes remain tender and soft. Too soft for the harsh cold earth that I am rotting in. I feel my lips turn blue. Ice crawls through my veins and there is not enough heat to subside it.

I remember, you clad in gray and white, an angel sent from a faraway blight. Once, long ago.

Your wings were draped around your muscled back; the aching of their weight pulling you down to the core of this dammed earth. I remember you resting with weeping eyes and a sorrowful smile. Your eyes are the color of burnt opal on the shore, enveloping the plump buds on the earth. You follow the trail you left behind, and the buds claimed you as their own. Whimpering pleading to be set free. Falling to your knees, “Oh, Gods above and below, save me from this mess that is my own,” you spoke in tongues that I did not understand, hissing and growling murmurs of the shadows.

I was safe in your embrace. Once. Long ago. Before you let me out of your grasp.

And when the flowers claimed you as their own, their soft touch pressing against your trembling lips, the Gods heard your prayers and gifted you a crown and a throne. One too mighty to be carried on your own. The moon stayed in the sky, chuckling to herself, for you drove yourself to madness and insanity. To the brink of destroying all of your galleries. You shouldn’t have wished to be set free.

I remember you ripping petals off roses, chanting cruel spells, cursing the Gods that put you here. You hurl your guts and fears into the sink of flowers that did not bloom before their beds touched you. The beast that you had slain devoured you instead, but you never noticed me slipping from your grasp.

I remember banging on the doors of your estate. White walls engulfing the space. I begged to be let in. I begged and begged and begged, but you had torn out your ears in hopes that you would hear, but instead, you left me there. Beyond the doors of your estate. The moon sighed down at me and looked away. I should’ve just stayed home.

I have woken up, you are gone and the world around me is in bursts of monochrome.

Toska

I think you know by now that I am a liar.

“Running” (Photo by Alla Khuseyn)

I wasn’t waiting for you.

I never was.

I never waited under the dim street light under your apartment building, casting shadows on all those that walked past the vast expanse between them and the ringing in my ears.

I never waited on the park bench where you first held my hand and brought colors I never knew existed into my space. Perhaps that is why the grass felt greener that day. Perhaps that is why the grass looks grayer today.

I didn’t wait under snowfall; the one that coated the earth in an icy warm blanket — snowflakes cascading across the ice, drawing faint figures only we could decipher.

I told myself that there are sadder things in life than sinking boats or broken hearts. Things that are sadder than words unspoken or poetry not written. Sadder things than the last stroke of the pen upon a page that may never forget the hands of its owner. Yet, it was I who mourned for our desperate souls — searching for one another in each crashing wave and each crack of lightning. Only to find us in forgotten hymns and torn pages.

I think you know by now that I am a liar.

I did wait.

I waited and waited and waited.

I was there when the rain fell and when the sky was a bright light that stained my too pure skin.

I waited.

I said your name under my breath, loud enough for only my lips to hear; for uttering it any louder was a burden too heavy to carry — a name that was no longer my own to utter. So, I said it in whispered breaths, hoping you will hear my distant cries.

You never came.

And now, there is a subtle feeling lingering between my fingertips as I pick up the last pieces of myself. I pack them into a box and let them find their eternal sleep, hidden tightly under the bed I lay in, covered in roses and daisies. I hope they find their shelter kind; for there is a dull ache at the bottom of my heart, reminding me that those pieces are being torn into fragments and I will be honest with you now, I do not know when this dull ache will turn into a pounding pain. So I ask, will you come now?

And if you do, will you come back tomorrow? And then the next day. And the day after that? Stay for eternity and only leave once the memories of you and your name are spoken for the very last time.

Sometimes I can imagine it; the pieces of me that I left behind.

I can imagine the faded image of my smile, etched in the crevice of your mind.

I can see you finding my forgotten scribbles in your drawer, emptying out your grief like a slow burn candle. Is it vanilla scented?

I can see it sting. I can see it burn. I see it left a scar.

Perhaps every last thing I have forgotten or left behind is one more thing to be found by you. You, who swore to love me.

Was that a lie?

Perhaps my forgotten scribbles will remain forgotten in that drawer, and perhaps, my faded smile will continue to fade in my own memories as I forget where it all began.

Perhaps it was meant to be this way — a mere passerby in your life that is too grand.

Either way, I see the pain I left behind in your not-so-sad eyes and your terribly bright façade.

Will you come now?