Scars across an aging heart
never seem to heal
and the wind stings just
a little less
across my pricked face amid the
trees of white and brown and blonde.
Hair sits atop my head
a messy crown of brown and ash
and the memories weave their way
among the lockets and whiskers and strands
with every breath I take in.
A heavy heart is made heavier still
by the endless gravity and march of time.
Less are made each year,
but I'm still making
young mistakes.
The fires of passion burn me
just as they ignite my life
and I am left as charred remains,
no phoenix rising.
Pretty new hair molded
into what has been fashionable
but is never guaranteed to remain so
a symptom to an illness known as modernity.
The words are slow and heavy now,
caked on mud and dried out dirt,
reminding me of the pain of failures
and times when words shot like lightning
torching our midnight skies
and stinging maladjusted eyes.
At first we shone as the birth of fire
to the primitive women and men,
now dimished to flourescent lights
to the weary school boys and girls.
What once was intense wonder,
now a history of young mistakes;
such a fascinating bed to lie in.
The fear set in as it always did
A slow, trodding march of remembered feelings
and ghosts of the past.
What was left here waiting for me,
and what was worth wanting?
I had spent the weeks inhaling you and
I was beginning to forget where I began
and ended,
and was that not what we all wanted?
We took turns melting pieces of ourselves,
bones and souls,
until we were more than before.
Emergence came and so did we,
we were delivered
and awake
and new.
The fear arrived just long enough to be
swallowed by the love.
The days stopped melting when weeks became a blur and
there was something lucid about this long dream I
could not place my finger on,
or any other useful appendage.
My brain tried to wrap around it all,
warped,
and became a circle of infinity,
forever repeating a forgotten memory
so old it had become snowed out like so many
old VHS movies.
I could sit and stare at the screens for hours,
and the message or medium never changes.
My life as a circus show
minus a few bears riding unicycles,
and a strong woman.
Hope danced on lips unhinged by love
And the conversation was natural, intimate and real.
Truth exploded from my mouth like unrestrained combustion,
Time followed it with fleet feet in the single direction it runs.
I might never be yours
be someone
live well enough
But I am always the truth.
Fear had its claws pushed through the skin
that coiled tightly around my veins and muscle,
a failed attempt to turn me away or bleed me out.
I was not dying anytime soon and the only thing
scarier than love was a lack of progress towards it.
The fear hung on like bats waiting for night to fall,
but I was the only falling piece on the board.
I’m lost, I said, though I knew she was sleeping.
I remained in the bed, sitting,
staring where love once was,
now some dark shape that could have been a corpse in the bed remained.
All that was special and magical in life
had suddenly become commonplace and tired;
there was no remedy or break from it.
It seemed as if the gold paint had flaked off
and now I was left staring at a mud statue.
Life was crawling by and all I wanted was to run,
and I waited so long to get out of the gates.
I wish I never looked back.
Your white dress gripped your body
like melting snow hugged the sidewalks
And the feelings of the night invaded
Everyone lucky enough to see you.
You had matching heels on and
You didn’t get to wear them often.
The moon and stars are always beautiful
But they were playing second fiddle for the night
And they could have exploded without
Me noticing.
There was a warmth about you that made
Any thoughts of cold unthinkable
And unfeelable,
But maybe that was from sensory overload.
You dominated the night without trying
And I imagine even the sun
-hidden underneath the world and our feet-
Was jealous or in love.
We walked wet streets
Grass peaking out
And drunk kids wandering by,
even the most beautiful of them
Must have felt like old rotting hags.
Big, endless eyes beamed your soul
Into my baby blues and we smiled often
There is no description for when
Souls collide and caress another,
But we felt ours coming alive.
Life is mostly colourless,
Often blurry and fuzzy,
But the right mix of inner and outer beauty
Is never out of focus or the colour of life.
You radiated colour
Love
Life,
And I hope the world doesn’t consume you.
Everyone dreams of something,
or someone to come home to
that means anything at all
in this plastic and material life.
We fall apart
a shaving of dignity at a time
and we become so thin and barren
that only another so broken could love us.
Our best friends are the worst critics
knowing that we are capable of more,
fists red from punching snowbanks on
hour-long walks home through the St. John’s
streets that are empty and decrepit.
They demand what we could never give,
or can only show in glimpses,
potential is a tricky game and it drowns more than it saves.
I opened the door and wished you would
walk out of the old room
sleepy-eyed and confused
and I could tell you that it was okay
and I was home,
but I would never be home again.
I died in my dream a few nights ago,
Was resurrected without purpose
Just like the first time through this ride.
They say you never die in dreams,
but that’s a lie and everyone knows it
And its said drams only last fifteen seconds
But I woke up with a headache from crying
And having to tell my dream mother how I had died
Inside of my dreams while I cried so long
In real life
That I woke up with a headache,
So I that’s false to.
Maybe they don’t know much of anything
About dreams
Or loss
Or misery
And all the DSM’s in the world
And every little comment is just guess work,
Nominalist guesswork at best,
And they can’t tell you a fucking thing about
Your heart
Your mind
Or love.
Andy Veilleux 