Last night I placed seven flowers under my pillow, that I might see you again. I sleep in the theory of morphic resonance, in symphonies of winter and chastity houses. I dream of a field between language and light, that I might find you there. I walk among the living, speaking in tongues, turning dead cinders and lichens into meaning. I pretend that all this will not one day be in the past tense. These are our worldly duties: to forget, but I have loved none more than you, the words of you and the dust of hours. When the cold comes in, it is swift in its veins and as white as the fires of presence. I know now that to love is to have something that would be too painful to forget, also to remember. Here, where the living wait, there is a threshold. I thought to speak your name, a summoning; to say your name, a field. All among the earth, black upon black, such is our loss and the poppies. I learned to burn the small dead branches, another way of speaking. I learned to pray for the ground, to feel no pain, that we might finally know peace: bodily, the peace of a hundred windy fires. But to see you again, I would give this peace and all the hours of the earth. Even from a distance. I have given no one violets, I have mourned, and still the earth does not know how much we loved one another. We dream and forget the dream in our waking. To be like that is a wind-swept spirit, a window. To be like that is to forget and then remember youâve forgotten. These are the flowers of you I have collected.
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baratheonpilled
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