One day we’ll open our hearts for the birds to feed upon.
Drawn to the sun, the moon, the stars but never making peace with the dirt: our birthplace — our deathbed.
Storms of great magnitude have unraveled for this woman.
Her grim, steely countenance is merely a facade for the forthcoming betrayals that she awaits. For those who have yet to cross her.
Battles of mass destruction have been fought for this man.
His eclectic, cozy demeanor is merely a facade to intimidate those who have already vowed to love the unlovable.
Is it a prophecy? These aching organs? Is it a foreshadowing by the oracle? Did they foresee the unforeseeable?
Will they tell this woman when she will be dry again? When her tongue will taste again? Is it her solemn demeanor that chases everyone away? “She is in mourning” if only they knew she had none yet to mourn.
What will become of the man? How will he become the beast he is destined to be by tomorrow? Surely there is too little time. He has a story to end. He must be the beast. He must wreak havoc. He must do the unthinkable. And he must be slain.
How will they make peace with their infinite pasts and futures? The have-nots and the have-gones. Their silly, childish dreams and morbid imaginations? Their petty fears and everlasting disappointment of their small, miniscule world.
We will write to them!
We will write a letter to the man. He is loved. So loved. Even after he becomes the beast. Even after he is vanquished. He is loved. His beauty will encompass the world after his death. His legacy will quietly persist as a flower bud sprouting between the concrete.
The woman — oh the woman. We will tell her she belongs to our neighbouring galaxy. Her vastness cannot be contained in ours. She is worth more than the Milky Way, and every quartz of every atom, of every chocolate. All because she has no one to adore. And those who adore her — do it for all the wrong reasons.
In this gnarly existence; these baby teeth, and grimy fingers are not enough to burn our torches. These pearl necklaces and melodic lullabies are only a shadow, a haze, a phoney imitation of the real world.
I will count the days until I reach it.
