the love note to strangers.

Again today I wake and stumble through the falling and the flying: we have come too far in this to ever be able to go back. 
Maybes have gone, passed out the window like dust: so have perhaps and after this and I'll see you tomorrow. 

I close my ears and hear the noise: the buzz of the light-box, the clock counting-down, the sound of my blood. The screaming noise the shadows make as they, too, fall through many things and many floors and many, many minds. The hush-poor of the cloth as it rustles: blood-red and unapologetic.

I blink. Words collide in my head, like sandpaper, only smoother, and much more beautiful. 
Always knew that words you hear could be felt: like a long, winding sonata on a viola: heady and tragic, like life.

The clothes drape themselves over the bars and the chairs and the dresser and the cupboard and the shelves, finding pride of place over Tolkien and Murakami, white and red and dark purple sheer: narrow straps and wide ties. Alive, and their shadows scream, like anytime they would walk out the door on their own and take the train, take my bag, take my life and leave me behind with only the heart-tree on my wall.

The violin sounds: a high, sad keen, meant for lovers' ears. The violinist closes his eyes: makes love. 
Instrument or wild young lover: sonata or sex: life or death, it's all the same thing said differently.

Ah, the bow, the graceful young Dancer, the Dying Swan in the Dead Red Car.

And afterwards we will find our own satirical pleasure in the farthest reaches of these things: with bruised skin and broken bones and bleeding mouths and torn-off limbs: our eyes blinded white from the sun. We will twist and turn and hide and run from the Eaters and Rages and the Revelers of Horrible Things, and we will forget each other because our minds will Cease To Be.

We will transcend art and loneliness and education and fear and continents and a hundred thousand other things we will invent names for: the little voice of the silence that screams in your head, the space between our lips the exact moment before we kiss, the sound stones make when they try to speak.

We will be happy and sad and ecstatic and miserable and tragically beautiful and alive, all at the same time.