[mountainsonnet-blog]

To renounce all is the indefinite canvas; to live an obscured existence, adrift. Both above and below a rebirth, I remain affixed to what was. The cold yet fervent red. And an objective separation stings less than the return; the warmth of a blue-tinged mentality is stifling. So my phantom limbs wander. And my bathwater is lucid still. And thoughts of home are phosphorescent; the screaming synthesis of memory and time, gone.

Algos

[mountainsonnet-blog]

I can no longer nurse a waning memory. Light the fuse; flesh aflame reminds me what it’s like. My deepening tone is punctuated by a ticking clock and June is petrol blue.

June

[mountainsonnet-blog]

April begins with a hush. Not the dull, gnawing silence of November but a whitewash of nothing noise pinpricked with static and the constant, humid threat. My open window persists and my thoughts remain parallel. Relentless. I feel an intangible affliction, unwavering and warm. Then grey clouds, viscous, inching across an unmarked canvas and the shroud of heavy black that threatens and promises all the same. Stifling. The density of another human life shared with my own. The undisclosed concept of you.

April

[mountainsonnet-blog]

I submerge my limbs as I think of us; tepid water turns cloudy with zeal and our love is flesh on porcelain.

Bath

[mountainsonnet-blog]

I close the bathroom door behind me. My wandering thoughts are punctuated by the sound of rushing water. The window sits happily ajar and I smile along with it. Outside, a knowing darkness envelops the sky and the moons eye widens. Thrilled. I inch fabric from my limbs and feel my skin tighten at the sight of the bathtub. Inhale. Warmth floods my veins as I allow the water to swallow me whole. Heavy, sticky air fills my lungs but my mind is elsewhere. Exhale. In my head I paint a picture of us - we’re red paint on a white canvas. Fervent, frantic and violently intrusive. I flush under the image and sink further, wet hair tickling the back of my neck. I revel in the feeling.

Bathroom

[mountainsonnet-blog]

Freshwater tempts me from afar, its mask of purity thirsting to corrupt. A facade written in black and white, yet misread by the most observant, misheard by the most attentive, misunderstood by the most acute. Bare feet slip on selfish stones, fingers trembling, toes blurring under a film of truth. Tainted with crimson, a predatory affliction, an ankle to latch my blind faith to you. Our bond was sacred, white linen stained blue, a requiem worth a lifetime from a ring that failed to dim and the grievous ache of draining time, sucked dry from the vessel.

Leech