lucid luminosity

i dreamt of you
again last night,
and as we walked
beside the dusky
sea before
the stinging daylight
tore the underwater
stars that intertwined
like delicate spider webs
in the wind,
like your fingers
on my wrist
as you led me on
and on skywards
like you never would,
and all i saw was
the back of your head,
the nape of your neck
like i never would
want to again,
and we talked
about the rain
and your dreams
and my fears,
and your hands
in my hair
as you fell asleep
on my shoulder
on the pale sands
beside the sea,
and i traced
the lines that
raced across
your palm
like it was the
last memory,
and your eyes
gently shut, and
the wind tousled
your hair,
and in that moment
i loved you more
than i had ever
loved before,
and i held you close
with bitter-sweet tears,
that washed away
these bitter-sweet fears,
then i watched, as i sunk
like a stone in the air;
your cursory footprints,
in the sand, and despair —
and knew when i woke
to dawn’s ghostly recalling:
you love not to fly
when you knows you are falling.

T. E. Pyrus

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fragmented

and then
you look for
a way to
peel off your skin,
a candlestick
and a rusted
blade beside
the matchbox
because the
dreams were
too magnificent for
you to ever
grow into,
so you lie
beside it
in a corner,
let it pour out
like wandering
silver mist
from a stranger’s
lost cigarette,
too exhausted
to be another
hand-me-down;
teeming with
pride
like a writer’s
old notebook
that still smells
of old lavender
and almost
unused lipstick
and tear drops
and ink blots
and almost
unnoticed mistakes
and a little
too much sentiment,
outlawed by time,
ripped out
like a reluctant
heartful of stifling
frustration and
fragmented
with sarcastic
tenderness,
like gravel
that once
hoped to
be a sculpture
in an ancient
museum of fine arts,
because, y’know,
everything
is fine
until it’s gone;
shine bright;
dead stars
were born in
the wrong
galaxy; dead
people were
merely unlucky.

T. E. Pyrus