Contagious. Is that all we are, really? Infectious through laughter, spreading our fingertips electricity, endemic turning deadly from final goodbyes. Enduring all we can, immune or becoming so. Thought we'd left this place, but the disease is rooted deep. Surprise! It returns just to spoil you being so smiley. But that familiar music. She still thinks there's bad blood in her veins. In trouble for such a terrible attendance track record.
We're all just part of one giant landscape. The trees, mountains, rivers and weather - they are the real players. Even wild animals are only used for sound effects. Building tension, can you hear that ferocious sound? Forest fires spread fast as the lightning that born them. The vines that will bind you together, watch them less than you observe the love in your arms. She cannot help thinking of that warm, silky water. Ground swelling and expanding only to throw out the rejected innards it was given centuries before. Not a fan of death and after a while the treasured bodies it holds weigh too heavy. The air seems so light and welcoming. Those wood choppers are the mean critics, the grave diggers are more sympathetic.
She's building a home with him. There's a house built from love and they're going to stay there. Everyone's welcome, but it's visiting hours only.
Not faced the silence alone, but you can't hold her together. But time for something so much sweeter.
Each little pocket contains a secret. Kept in the palm of warmed hands. Sewn together for safe keeping. Each patch brought together so very tenderly. Soon a quilt has formed. Eclectic, by no real design. It teaches a valuable lesson too - how to keep you so very comforted and loved. How to spend a life with you so delicately and easily. How to love and be loved. It says most of all that there's hope after everything, after all.
Put a secret in your pocket and you'll know I'll always love you.
Ages past and we are none the wiser. Yet, like the undeterred moth, we carry on looking for rays of light to cast out our shadowy doubts. In being optimistic, it's a sure sign you were pessimistic in the first place. So we're glass half empty most of the time. At least that's how we see it as the liquid pours so silvery down our throats. It's going to cause you the pains of the world tomorrow, but all you care about is tonight.
Tonight. Tonight. Tonight.
Looking so serene, watching sunsets. Faces lit by a blood red sky. Purple hues to flood the previously chalky clouds. Seem so absent. Thinking there's a wrong. Maybe there is, but ambivalent daydreams seem so innocent to place the blame on. Left hating pocket watches forever more. Hands so cold. You should have worn a jumper and socks. That space that's stared out. Grey that's alive with fluorescent shapes and images. Even when not discernible, they are scary.
That moment, the one that's savoured still. Can't shake it, can question it. This future is how it is and it will never be changed for anyone else.
That great way the room looks lived in. Messy and yet so still it seems untouched. Not an empty place. It's filled with emotion. Love and safety. This is our place. The windows can tell you stories of rain and sunshine. The panes can recall just how cold the snow felt and how scarily close the fog got to spoiling a view. Thunder left it quaking in the wooden frames. Cherry grain never looked so alive from all the lifetimes it had to tell.
It's been awhile, hasn't it.