thecityoflove

I did not wash the dishes— the ones in which I served you a home-cooked meal— until about two weeks ago. I couldn’t bring myself to wash the remnants of your presence or to cleanse myself of the stains caked on clinging to the ceramic— the only evidence of our time together. A couple days ago, I threw them in a trash bag like bodies with toe-tags time having somehow slipped through their grasp. Adrenaline— my heart pounding with rage? sadness? regret? I cannot say for sure, but some sort of sickness seemed to slip through my veins that night. I didn’t mean to drop them, but the loud clash and clang of

For when they ask why-- Tell them that I climed to the highest floor of the tallest building because I thought that I could lift my spirit toward heaven ad astra per aspera Through adversity to the stars fixated with the idea of flight intoxicated by the promise of light-- rays of sun melting the ice that I have always felt thawing my flesh from the frozen, corporeal prison that is depression banishing the shadows from my mind an equinox the promise of spring bearing forth the promise of an inevitable summer from the cold, winter nights of dark memories and childhood trauma Tell them that when I fell it was because I flew too close to the sun

I often dreamt what others thought of me-- the golden boy with golden youth and face so fair--and all of those who turn to see my golden hair find love and never hate. But I could never fathom what they saw, for I had never truly seen myself. Or maybe my reflection's only flaw Was that the water truly shows one's self. Black hair, black eyes, black fate. From what I saw-- I did not know! The doubts were all I knew. Self-love may be a standard fatal flaw, but loathing is a talent of the few. And so I fell from heaven, off the shore. A flower lives; Narcissus is no more.

I do not believe that God is real, but if He was, I am sure that He would be alive within the vibrations of the chants which echo throughout the choir behind the altar. He would be present in the unison force of men's voices, and alive in the feeling of awe that radiated through my body, striking my core, when I first saw St. Pius's bronze dome which loomed over the dominion of man grounded in the earth, but stretching outwards-- grazing the tips of heaven itself. He would live in the gold embellished walls and in the red marbles and frescoes that filled my spirit with a divine-like warmth, and in every curve and edge of marble on bod

I am envious of the moon in her heavenly orbit, For she will caress the edges of your jaw and the soft skin of your cheeks with pale, white fingertips at dusk, And only she will see your shadow in the light. She is fortunate enough to find herself encased within a crystalline sphere that will catch the subtle glow of your first grin without me. And from her throne she can see the starlight reflected in your image, A flicker of light for every virtue you possess, a constellation created from a combination of your thoughts and an accumulation of your actions, Every hope and every doubt, Every success and failure She will see when I am blind

I can not recall the exact moment when I was certain. Instead, my memories are stained with the image of an endless sea of gold, A halo of light falling into decay, withering away like the yellow autumn leaves And the sounds of summer only distant whispers vanishing into the past. The winter winds were rough, like the edges of an old iron bar And in my adolescence, I remember raking the soft pink palm of my hand against the black grain The bare bark naked against the soft gray sky with barren limbs outstretched, But my thoughts were abundant with tiny tints of red and gold, The color of heroes. And for the first time, As I turned to see