Ye Whom I Pray To
You knew a boy. A boy with long, thin, pale fingers; the kind made to caress in the harshest gentle you know, over your lips and on the way catching the trembling whispers of “Please, please”, up the slope of your nose, stealing your very air and over your eyelids; making you wish that you’d never open them again. He’s the kind you want to worship, the kind you place your faith on. Because, in the end, just like God, he forsakes you.
And when he leaves, you’re left with all your emptiness and that sweet familiar burning in your eyes that you’ve come to associate with him, as his; you’ve given up all the water in your body to him and you wonder how you are still alive.
He left with love in his fingertips, and a lie on his lips.
At night, you clutch your sheets close to you, wrap them so tightly around you that you feel like you’re suffocating; and still you can’t feel that familiar warmth. So you get up, get into your black coat and you go out into unforgiving chill; so you won’t be reminded, and you walk and walk and when your nose and fingertips go numb cause oh, you forgot your gloves again.
When you get back to a home that isn’t quite a home, you see that looming mahogany of his beloved and you remember, he never loved you as much as he did that piece of crap and your eyes burn again but you don’t shed tears, instead you take your fists and you charge towards it, but you stop at the last second because he loved it, he loved it! And you fall, as you always do when it comes to him, and you tremble with your cold and your unshed tears and you wonder, how he could have been so warm when he was so cold.
And it’s then you realize, ah, it’s his fingertips, it’s always been his fingertips. That’s all he gave you, isn’t it, and now you don’t even have that. All that’s left for you is the feeling of his false warmth and everything his fingertips lingered on and its then your blood runs as cold as your numb body.
Do you even have your heart anymore, all the blood it pumped, or is it etched into his pale fingertips in red with the force with which he crushed it?
You think the worst is when you’re awake; with the remains of his false love clutching your everything. But you know, when you fall into the abyss of unconsciousness and you dream nightmares, that the worst is when you’re asleep.
And when you open your eyes tomorrow, you wish you never wake again cause you swear you still feel his lips next to your ear, you swear you still hear his voice weaving words into melodies and you question, just what is lies, what is truth, what is reality, what is dreams; if not both the same?
And you think with bitterness, if he were a lie, you’d still think him truth.
And think him truth you do; you start seeing the beauty in the ugly deceitful lies he told. You hang onto the nights spent in bed, to the stolen kisses in the dark of alleys and behind the bellowing purple of curtains, and to all the pretty flowers he gave you.
And you try to forget all the bad, like how empty his eyes were, how his smile was always the same; a small lift at the corners of his mouth, like he’s forgotten to smile, and how his fingertips were the only thing real about him. But you don’t think about it, do you? You just push it back into the black hole you’ve created in your mind. But they don’t really disappear, do they?
They linger there in the crooks of your mind, just like him and you wish they would just start collecting cobwebs and wither away into nothingness; just like his pretty flowers.
You wonder if he was ever alive, and then you decide, no, your memories of him on those huge stages, on a mahogany bench decides for you. Then you wonder if he ever felt trapped between two huge pieces of mahogany and you smile an awry smile; he was ever only alive then when he was fighting for his escape with fingertips that presses so hard and at times so gentle on black and white keys.
Then you wonder if he ever felt free and ah, what a stupid question because haven’t you heard his tale of freedom?
Its then you come to the conclusion that forces you to shed tears, to curse your own name cause just how deaf you have been; he’s been shouting with his fingertips, oh, his very real fingertips all this time, and it’s just you that haven’t been listening.
You’re left questioning all you’ve come to think and at the end of all that, you come to the conclusion that maybe you were God to him. He worshipped you with his fingertips, put his faith in you and prayed to you with his songs of freedom, and you closed off your ears to it all, you realize, that you were the one to abandon him and in turn he abandoned you.
