secrets for the telling

stream of consciousness poem on toxic infatuation

In the gossamer mist of you there are secrets to fine for the telling, beyond the mere vibrations of air, beyond again the curving of inkstrokes. I long to brush out the cobwebs from the vacant chambers of your heart; how cold it must be there in those empty rooms, how the dust has settled on the sheets, how dim the chandeliers through disuse and misuse.

You told me stories I was never fool enough to believe but onto every word from cherry-blossom lips I clung, my fledgling soul soaring to unknown heights as it first leaves its nest, knowing the fall that awaits it on a cruel current of wind but knowing too the freedom that awaits it above and above and higher still.

Come now, soft now, there are still secrets for the telling, there are still stories and lies your lips have yet to find and my ears have yet to rest upon. Let us climb higher and higher still, until the fall takes us.