Oh, Anemoia. Oh, Anemoia.
Honeypie, darling, I miss your bittersweet taste. Hands with a frozen touch during summer afternoons and legs that cross magma on our ice skating dates. You wear brands I recognize but have never worn, the makeup of colors I never painted with before. But they seem so familiar, the sensation of nothing burgers. You're favorite, those nothing burgers. On the tip of my tongue, I can feel it.
I reach my hand out, icicles trickling salty droplets down my nerves. Your fingers tap and make their way to my center point. A septum separates us, but you're still ever so close. It's almost as if I can make out the printing on your palms, your tips like I can draw them out on a map. Find me, you say. A pit to fill, a fall to rise. Your footsteps are mere outlines, sketch diagrams of a who-to-be. Your sense of direction has no sense whatsoever, half-of-half-a-way progress. Please, my dear. I want a touch of yourself, a scent of your presence. Any signs to spare? My wallet is empty.
Oh, Anemoia. Oh, Anemoia.
I question your night spending. How do you sleep at night? Warm milk with a side of honey, perhaps. Come home, tell me how your day went, take me to places I thought I knew. Maybe confide me in those alienated alleyways bearing a lack of my evidence. I figure I misplaced them, but the idea sours as it lingers. Twenty-four letters find their way to your doorstep, though no addresses for show. You're my salt and pepper, the glitter and glimmer. Relay me your dishes and senses, where you hide under the moonlight and beyond. Where do you reside? Where do we remain? Where did you leave me?
These pages are faint with a silky aftertaste. Let me rest in your sheets, a river running from beneath. Those apple slices you share numb my tongue, the perfume you wear reeks of distance, and that dress your mother bought you lacks any discernable patterns. I remember our first date, I suppose. Maybe a movie night, a park, or an ice cream parlor. At some point, the glass grows more opaque with every passing moment. I squint for a second, but it still feels off. One foot forward, I wonder if you're still with me. I'm starting to doubt it.
Oh, Anemoia. Oh, Anemoia.
You gave me a jigsaw puzzle, though all the pieces differ from one another, all foreign in the same plastic bag. Even now, I look back to the oddities you bring. The words you string, the voice you use, the face you occupy. They close the space but feel lighter than the air. You falter sometimes every time, to the point where it tilts to an uncomfortable side. The coat you clothed me last winter has hugged the back of another. An outside perspective forms on my retinas the longer I glare at you.
As tragic as it may be, you're a time outside of mine. You're an extra shard of glass, a fragment of a non-broken painting. Your handheld pictures are cold to the touch. You're a round peg to my square hole. Perhaps a dimension above or below, but the point remains the same. You lack an identity fitting for me, dear. I've yet to see your sights, dear. I've yet to relish in your arms, darling. I've yet to taste your lipstick, my beloved. And it upsets me in every way imaginable, but it's a truth to reckon with. You're a lie, a negative, a nobody in all its glory.
Oh, Anemoia. Oh, Anemoia.
You're half the stranger I used to know. You pay a foreign currency with bucks to spare, some cents to mark your trail. I remember when I remembered you. Though maybe I'm recalling something else entirely, I'm not sure. How a mind fills a gap is simply intriguing. However, some holes bear no need to be covered when they lack an existence to justify. If anything, you're translucent. My dear, you lack the legs to stand on. I hopelessly wonder if you'll wake up beside me next spring. Maybe you're with me after all.
But a pipe dream is merely a pipe dream. Even then, I wish to plant a kiss goodnight and wrap you in my arms for one final first time. I'll bury you in the corners of my mind, covering you in flowers, candies, and compliments. Substitute your monochrome interior with a multicolored exterior, coating you in all sorts of appeal. Despite your lack of physicality, you're the most vivid dream a man can conceive. You're a beauty without foundations, a taste of the impossible, a love without loss or gain. I'll see you again, next plastic Christmas day.
Oh, Anemoia. Oh, Anemoia.
Oh, Anemoia
page revision: 1, last edited: 29 Nov 2023 19:41