I lay across the bed from him, his face in mine, separated by a wall of grey smoke. The herb is the healing of the nation, the healing of my lacerated heart. I sank into the navy depth, weighed down by a thousand anchors as I watched him sublimate. The curve of his back arched and he seemed to rise. His face disintegrated part by part and his eyes began to sink into their sockets and disappear into warm wisps of air that was snug and safe in the cold night. He looked celestial in that moment, disappearing from my tangible world and fading into the recesses of my dreams where he belongs. Not death, just a disappearance.
Just like he came, he will go, back to his world of making manic faces in the mirror and finger painting in pastel shades of water colours. It will all be very quiet, the departure that is. May be a tear or two which will be shed in secret, not for the hope of what could have been, and not for the hundred prayers that went unanswered, but for all the beauty that was us.
Good night friend.
Just like he came, he will go, back to his world of making manic faces in the mirror and finger painting in pastel shades of water colours. It will all be very quiet, the departure that is. May be a tear or two which will be shed in secret, not for the hope of what could have been, and not for the hundred prayers that went unanswered, but for all the beauty that was us.
Good night friend.
I want to write extracts of this on my wall. This and bits of 'In My Matchbox.' Colour of your choice, I will use a wax crayon. It will, of course, be in memory of someone we used to know.
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