it is always quite strange when my mind convinces me that i live inside this giant box of strings that manage to swirl and slice and never break. they are not chains, and i feel free as to point that out, but they are not much real either to be honest, just clear lines of dry and uncoherent thought. makes me understand i am a puppet. and your puppet i was indeed, when the rough howl of madness came from out of your mouth, you moved me.
it's simple at once and too complex, you stretch infinity when you embrace me with open arms, and the freckles that populate your face are fine little specks of the paint my tongue left behind. once i dreamt we cried orange, and the doors of you house were gone. there were only yellow walls, and when you smiled i understood it was summer.
it's autumn now, it's orange but never summer again, you know?
it feels highly haphazard and blurred now, afternoon dusks and night rises, morning light showers trough yellow glasses, steamy windows and i smile alone. i crafted you myself as a gift... a doll, a puppet with strings attached that can't even stand my weight.
it's because i want you to carry me, can't you ever tell?
dreams of wax melt under fire, and i am stuck in memorabilia, mementos of joy and pain. it feels so good to be alive. you never laid bricks upon themselves, i hug tightly to that now, you never owned such cruelty, your organic homes made of wood, big old chunks cut from life into comfort, how we wandered.
and all those eery halls... all if not alls, but portraying on my mind in sly oil narrow passages of open-minded art, paintings on the walls and books on the floor, your eyes always bright, and your skin was dust, and i didn't hesitate in lying on the bed you made.
guess that trough this i was true to you, those awful doors, intricate keys, weighting down on my recently discovered melancholia, consuming our affair with red button lips, fruit-tasting boxes empty in your living room, you said you were packing life.
... - living room, and i fear telling you we live no more than this house. i feel the pain in your odd bones, getting smaller, getting thicker, sicker as you coreograph ballets to imaginary birds, what a pretty melody it would have been, and you know i hide from you to observe you get weaker each day, it is the weekly dose of dysfunctional entertainment i crave.
i would know you are tumbling on your feet, sweeping my messes with trained steps, i saw you when you cried, and i loved you because it's only right to do so. only right and it was the best mistake... but you never left the damned house. i was giving my mind a lesson the other day, telling it is grim that it will never be the same, i was whispering your name and cowering and spinning on those rooms you forgot to lock away. your puppet, yours - no strings attached.
oh, but steps must be gentle this time of the year, i always pride myself in leaving the leaves to whiter by themselves, and to never waver your swollen heart i write in ink on paper every night.
we are to come at once together, love
before at last drifting apart.
but it's so simple to miss you and forget farewells.