lonesome luminescence

They say it is a blessing to love and be loved in return. Storybook fantasies of hearts bleeding into the same puddle; entangled bones, disease shared on a saliva covered bottle of liquor. A love potion accompanied by watering eyes and a hot burn. Your lipstick tasted like blood and the butterflies in my stomach itched to drag themselves out of my pores and fly into a burning star. Warm arms licked my skin like flames from a hearth, yet the chills still ran across my spine as my insides froze over. We were like teeth and tongue, you and I. One sharp, crooked, and demanding. The other nauseatingly soft; like rotting flesh and chewed gum. Rubbery in texture and constantly twitching this way and that. Never stagnant. Stuck in the same oral cavity, always touching and talking.  

Acoustic guitar and the musician; callouses carved into fingertips out of labor and love. Made rough, thick, and coarse against wired strings. A melody sung from a wooden cave. Out of tune but a song all the same. The damaged warble was carried on aged vocal cords. Cracked and chipped. Worn talent only able to present a legacy of what once was and nothing more. 

But what is a rose without its thorns? The dog without his bite? The stars without their fever?  

Love, I believe, was always meant to be tragic. 

Or perhaps it was simply us. Perhaps it’s real; unconditional affection. To care despite flaws; to hold despite the burn. Perhaps we are simply the red stain on the white walls. The blotch of ink on aged parchment. The alcohol and the grape. Beauty, in some unnerving way.  

We say the sun and moon are lovers. Miserable lovers, but still. So far apart; only exchanging glances in passing. The moon can only shine when the sun reflects on it, yet the sun, in his eternal lonesomeness, remains lucid despite the cold space surrounding him. Much of humanity believes these two celestial bodies share a caring connection despite their million mile distance.  

Apollo and Hyacinthus, another pair we adore. Did I ever tell you that story? Do you know it? Apollo adored his mortal lover. Spent every waking hour at his beck and call, strolling by his side. Hyacinthus admired Apollo in his godly aura. How lucky was he, to be loved by the divine? Once, in a game of sports, Apollo sent a discus soaring across the land. Hyacinthus eagerly leaped to retrieve it; yet there was too much power flowing through it. The sin of pride, of boastfulness, of a need to impress, all led to his demise. Like a flower bud being trimmed by a gardner, his head hung from his neck. He bled across a field; and from his blood grew flowers. A sorrowful purple ascending from the ground. His memory would never fade from Apollo. Blossoming in his mind when he closed his eyes to rest. Whether this is a blessing or a curse is for the hearts of the poets to decide.  

Draining away in the arms of your devotee. A nice way to leave, I think. 

I believe if this were us the dead would not bloom in grieving violets but rather fiery lilies. Apologies for the cryptic sappiness I often suffocate you with. The orange lily. “My hatred for you burns into desire.” When my body corrodes onto your gravesite, I pray the seeds of my disdain serve as residue of our time together.  

Is it still love if the ending was lit by kerosene and kindle? No matter, I suppose. 

Love, I believe, was never meant for me.