Silent confessions

Moving through the room, trying to look like a casual afternoon stroller; fake a joyous indifference upon meeting you in my indefinite course. 

Can you taste the charges of eager ecstasy which dance in my gaze? I swear, how can you not read it on my face! I look like a truant schoolboy, set off on some lunatic game, running, freezing, chatting in craziness.

I’ve sworn not to utter these sick words; for they are like the ravings of midnight crickets. And who lends an ear for their chirps?

I’ve thought: This will be a melancholic stroll; let’s surrender our tired eyes to the door, and take another turn around the garden. Let us stop, and witness the soft, slumbering petals of the rose.

I’ve thought: Let’s be here, simply, another moment. Let’s sit by the tide, simply, for a time; let the salt set on our lips, and wash it down with drowsy smiles. Let’s fill our hair with the sing-songs of the breeze.

It will be just a moment: that it will. Just a moment, and we’ll find ourselves resting on our pillows.
Just a moment, I will say. But what moments…parading through the hints in my disguise.

Why don’t you take my hand? And why should you. A stranger, following your strides of magnificence; a stranger, who would pay sight and sound to fill a song with your kisses.

Just a stranger: And what difference may it make, if it be a careless wave, a sightless glance, a careful ‘pardon me’. Would you notice their words, if they spoke them with infinite slowness?

A knock rests, almost found, on the door of your consciousness. A knock, almost strong enough to whimper. But with such a crowd of shouts, how may a whimper sound to your ear?

Certainly, it must sound dull and broken; a gray among a field of red and blue.

And I never did besiege, these creeping thoughts; I let them stray, and wonder, as they pleased.
I let them, as they pleased; and look where it has taken me?

Time tiptoes through my half-smiling wishes. Who would feed these fires, but the hopes of drunks? Too tired to hear the honking of angry cars, too confounded to see the stares of disapproving gods. Too far left, with laughter in their hearts, to stumble into beds and safe houses.

So that they may, for hours in cloudless nights, grope among the faint light-spread of the sky;
Oh moon, you will be with them!

But I should not seek such foolish reposes. For if it be drunkenness which sparks my hopes, when may I sober from these gaping wounds? Flowers and soft-smelling lips may burn them to light.

And how long. I’ve thought: Maybe, with the dawn streaking bloodily across the tide; maybe, with the cracked cries of seagulls flashing overhead; maybe, if only, with the rumbling of spray against our bodies.
Maybe, then, I will turn to you, and find my image strewn across your blushes.
Maybe then, we’d take hands, and fall into the ocean. Maybe then, we’d be like fishes, swimming in a dream of softly waving colors; Maybe, we would waver with the sickly motion of the waves, descend among flowering beds of algae, come up for breaths of salt.

I’ve tried a million sceneries. I’ve seen a million movies, with endings like fairy-tales.
So many times, I’ve thought: As easy as ‘hello’; and instead of whispering awkwardly, maybe I will scream.

Goddess, Je t'aime.