The Last Waltz of a Phantom
My dearest Heather,
I am solemn to have realized;
The writing of this letter should have commenced
Prior to your abrupt departure from the isle.
It wouldāve read something as follows,
Letās start again:
My dearest Heather,
I cannot promise that your heart will not fall into a million pieces,
But I am greedy by nature,
And therefore want you all to myself.
It may be egotistical that I do not believe anyone else could treat you better,
Even if I have fallen short of that task,
Potentially to my detriment.
I do not wish to leave your side unless it was absolutely necessary,
In which case,
I will have to bear the sorrow of,
Analyzing the time as it passes,
Until I am once again at your side.
If you feel that you have given me all that you are,
I do not deem it enough,
I want more, or yet demand it.
Until there is nothing left,
But the chaff of the woman you once were.
Perhaps I am a monster.
A bloodthirsty vampire that shanāt stop,
Lest every ounce of blood is obsolete,
And the haemorrhaging trickles to a halt.
Yes,
This is me.
Perhaps I am a monster.
Perhaps not.
Perhaps I am an artist.
Yes.
This is me.
To see the beauty of a lifeĀ fullyĀ spent,
That though the time passes,
You have been forced to offer every,
Single, piece of yourself at the altar of life.
Onlookers will scream:
āSacrilegeā and āblasphemyā
But trust when I say,
They know not what they speak of.
They live in fear,
Never risking a thing,
Attempting to accomplish nothing,
And thwart others from doing so,
As they worship the axiom that goes;
āMisery loves companyā, or something of that sort.
Excuse me my love,
For I tend to veer off topic.
Whether I am a monster or an artist,
It is for you to ponder on.
You have lain next to my cold body,
Many a nights,
As I carried the world on my shoulders,
The incessant demand for my best self,
Turned me into something unpleasant to deal with,
As it led me to demand the best from the world,
And all the people in it,
Including you my love.
Do place your thoughts upon that afternoon a while ago,
That I had sat quietly and earnestly with your grandmother,
Enthusiastically ā and mind you, critically,
Appraising her fragmented collection of vignettes.
She offered me a cup,
And I drank from her past as if from sacred water,
Do you think that was obligation? No,
It was strategy, courtesy disguised as curiosity,
To extend my care beyond you.
That was my ace, and I played it gently,
Yet now I wonder if this tenderness was foolish,
If my curiosity was wasted on your love that is conditional.
Surely that shall not have me held in contempt.
I cannot promise that your precious heart is safe in my hands,
Yet you press it into my hands regardless,
Desperately,
With a yearn to be immortal.
But this isnāt virtuous, of either of us,
Especially I, the artist.
It wouldnāt be completely absurd,
If we had just let this be a blue, freezing, fleeting, fever dream.
It would be much easier, for me at least.
It wouldnāt replay every evening in my consciousness,
And I wouldnāt be obsessed with;
The individual tones of chocolate that make up the silk that is your hair,
No.
I would of course not be mesmerized by;
Watching the dark almond color in your eyes develop,
Lest my own eyes deceive me,
I stand, entranced,
Peering into the abyss that is my eternal flame,
You,
But knowing I may have to make off on a shooting star,
With no promise of return.
It was not my intention to fall this deep into this galaxy of stars.
At the time it did not seem like pressing matters,
Until it became just that,
But perhaps you will never be mine,
Truly, or I will never be yours,
Either avenue,
Would be a path where I let you fantasize,
But it doesnāt lead back to me,
Now, a monster.
Or maybe I should start again.
Heather,
I cannot promise that your heart will not fall into a million pieces.
But I am greedy by nature,
and therefore want you all to myself.
If I was to tell you the reason of my continuous return,
To the place they call Monte Carlo,
Shining, shimmering,
The place that sparked the rise of my creative ascent,
It will not bode well.
Something you may quietly resent me for.
As I so silentlyĀ resentĀ you.
A bittersweet thing that is, donāt you think?
My loathsome thoughts stem from the early inhibitions of our entanglement,
Or shall I say liaison.
It does me no good to not have ever expressed my concerns,
But seeing as you are considering leaving the isle,
It is befitting that it comes to light.
In hindsight, our foundation was built on a lack of transparency,
A concept very dear to me as youāve uncovered in recent ordeals,
But more specifically: a certain layer of deception,
Presenting a certain version of a character,
That would result in my making of decisions with incomplete details,
But nevertheless, Bravo.
Wonderful execution my love.
Had it not been for an acceptance of the Dionysian ethos as a philosophy,
I shouldāve stopped this madness at once.
It was in your gentle embrace that I trotted along,
Making it difficult to recognise the sly tactics,
The managing, the manipulative ways,
In which my mind often recollects,
A rather uncanny foundation donāt you think?
It feels as though at times I do not really know you,
Yet we have laid next to one another countless nights,
Played with one another,
And traveled far and wide, hand in hand,
Never once encountering much friction between us.
You may think that if it were pressing matters,
I wouldāve already brought such a thing to your attention,
But I disagree with this linearity.
It eats me up inside, yes,
Very much actually,
That perhaps you willed this affair into existence,
Exactly the way in which you had planned all along,
And that I, lacking information,
Would just follow, without raising a question whatsoever,
Yet here we are, question after question,
Running endlessly in my mind,
With you, under scrutiny in the courtroom of my thoughts,
Absent, and unable to defend yourself.
I do not think this as an unreasonable observation,
What is unreasonable,
Is how you led me to believe things,
That were not completely true,
And for this reason I am glad to see you go.
Or let me start once more:
My dearest Heather,
I am not yet ready for you to depart.
I cannot promise that your heart will not fall into a million pieces.
But I am greedy by nature and therefore,
Want you all to myself.
You cannot promise that you will not overstep my boundaries again,
Because you will be loyal to yourself first,
With twists and turns,
Until the damage is done,
And matters are no longer reconcilable.
I want this to be something I can live with, I truly do,
As I too, have twists and turns,
And have not been fully straightforward with you.
I have kept these inhibitions as an ace in my sleeve,
To have readily available when I am reaching my wits end.
I mean in the way that I tend to bail,
Once I find a chance,
Cautious, wary, that eventually I will face betrayal.
Perhaps I will be all alone,
Incapable of being loved,
Though I know you try hard to do just that,
Excuse me, for I push you away,
Against my own will, but still, loyal to myself first,
I know that you mean well,
But still I keep you at bay,
Or do you mean well?
If thou must love me, let it be for nought,
Let it be for just that, that you loveth me,
Mysterious, dangerous, calculated,
And all that therein.
Heather,
I have wrestled with this inner turmoil for a while now,
And will continue to do so,
As long as I love you.
Perhaps I am a monster.
Perhaps not.
But what is certain, is that this is what they made me.
Fragile, yet poised,
Broken, and therefore sharp,
Picking off stars in my wake.
But I, am also conniving and calculated,
Spinning illusions under your feet,
Knowing that I cannot keep it up forever,
But will do so until I am unveiled,
As the phantom in a ballroom of illusions.
My dearest Heather,
Do you see now that we are the same?
That is why I cannot promise,
That your heart will not fall into a million pieces,
As mine has.
I am greedy by nature and want nobody to have you,
Although I do not yearn to have you either,
But to bear the sorrow,
of not having you by my side seems unimaginable,
Yes, I am alone without you,
Everyone seems like ashes,
So I want to tell you I love you, I want to love you.
I will always love you.
But I am human and deeply flawed,
Unable to steady my trembling logic.
I have weighed your silences against your words,
And so, if I condemn you in the courtroom of my thoughts,
Absent though you are,
Perhaps I am what they made me.
You will carry with you the ghost of our nights,
And regret that you were careless with our time.
Yes, a befitting punishment.
Perhaps I will reach for you, with my rough claws,
Perhaps I will retreat, back to my cave.
In the event that I am a monster,
You are the only one who dares to lie beside me in the dark.
You have sung to me in my solitude;
But now dawn is upon us, and our dream is over,
And my trembling logic wishes we meet once more,
where you shall sing to me a much deeper song.
Or perhaps I am a phantom,
Untouched by the chandeliers,
Where the music forgets my name,
And I drift out of your orbit,
Slipping back into the ballroom shadows.
Therefore I must start again:
My dearest Heather.
My dearest Heather.
My dearest Heather.
