Please do not curse the memories, my love.
Memories are all we ever truly create, as we write fairy tales and the world rolls off the edge of a time forgotten, this text could be a scream or a sedative, a maze or a gun.
When you remember me remember white roses between my lips, the river of sparkling heaven between my hips, tell me in dreams that I am possibly the single flower of every life (there is no truth, only possibility, only in possibility, truth).
I wear the infinite hands of a beautiful death, kiss me grayblue, take everything I have and send it aflight,
birds on the wings
of the darkest night.
We are apart only as long as the fire behind your eyes turns cold, don’t let it. Remember your worth, remember you are the golden tongue of a hopeful god, remember what it is like to be a brutal fetish,
to be tested and grateful, and what it is like to taste like the fruitflesh, the nightmare, of freedom.
I will not leave you, I am here but not here, I am the walls you break down, I am the oceans of words
your soul spins
around.
These seven arms of mine are planets circling an ancient burial ground, tombs are hearts and hearts are impermanent, you will recite this even as you look up at me and smile,
the blinding lights will approach, let them, these are the lights of a dawn which will take away everything.
Everything you dream about is tragic and everything you sing for redeems.
Rejoice for the ways you had gone missing, for all the ways they hurt you make me love you even more.
Inside out, blood on the mouth of the windowsill.
Handkerchiefs, suit pockets, black fishnet faces appearing on the edges of your mind as it wanders back to a time you and I played in the fog like children,
you with your sticks and I with my stones, young lovers carved out of trees, bruises, secrets, broken bones swimming, swallowing daylight, and
running, running, running for home.
.
.
Allison Marie Conway 