There had always been something so enticing about the way you shrouded yourself under a thin veil of apathy, a veil so insubstantial no one ever bothered to look twice. Apathy, such a pitiful excuse for a dreamer like you. I knew you cared, with every electrified fiber of my body, I knew it well. I could see right through the epidermal fabrication, the way you disguised joy under a stoic mask, never letting the crowds catch even a mere rise at the corner of the lip, concealing passion under nail beds and within the inky blue lines running along the underside of the wrist. How I desired it. How I starved for it, trembling, to rip open the seams of your veins and let the pulsating crimson rivers whisk me away to the islands of your vulnerability
Maybe, or quite literally, you would have died.
Within the light of rare moments, you lent me laughter. Laughter painting the walls of the room a sunflower yellow, the innermost petals of jubilation. Laughter crumpling stone features, bending stature as you let go, heartstrings ascending by helium balloons I prayed would never fall back to earth. Stay, up there, your guard left down to collect dust. Stay free, crinkled eyes of today, for I am infatuated with your abandon.
But when the joy dies, I watch as they reach the ceiling and begin a tragic descent, the colors of your face desaturating back to skin, quiet translucence, voice fenced and trapped in a cavern throat, its key tossed into the rivers of temporary loss.
Speak to me.
my silent secret.