The eternal: poetry, struggle, tenderness. Haunted by beauty, but i created the bonds of my sins from paper chains. Seeking refuge in my own imaginary world, because it’s the only place i know how to find any. Of dubious virtues, if ever there were any. But my arrow always pierces solemnity. I want to lie on the beach, neck deep in peach bellinis. Perfect face, perfect grace. Warm sunlight, on closed eyelids. Focus on it, feel it, hold on to it. Keep it. Then remember it later. Hello darkness, my old friend. In the loneliest hour of all my longest nights, in the loneliest hours of my darkness, I will drink my tears. Aider and abetter of my own missteps, of which there were so many. Black nights. Crescent moon. Sky so big it feels like it might fall on me. The silence. The darkness, still. The far away stars. Burning through the ether. Burning up the glimmer. Self-loathing on Tuesdays and Fridays. Save me from myself. I’m as sweet and bright as a maraschino cherry. That’s the only side to ever show. Tenderness for sale. Because as long as I am fallible, I know I’m still me. Still skittish.
Always skittish. A little damaged. It all swirls together like an unheard cyclone. And then what’s left, is that i love every last atom of him, every inch, every breath.
Beautiful concert. All his beautiful songs. Opening night. Beautiful man. All his beautiful everything, and all of him.
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