Back in the last degrees of Libra walked the white sandals
on a pathless route towards where the woods met the clouds
and frosted glass covered the anvils where words are made.
I fade into my darkness, mumbling forgotten songs.
But when the fire of Mars is dowsed in the waters
of the fishes that sing lullabies to bodies that do not float,
I wake. Cold as a scorpion that stings itself on its head
if only to reassure itself that it is not dead but half alive—
like a vampire at four in the morning, an immortal with no life,
a distuned guitar that accompanies an inaudible lyric
about witches in disguise.
Soon, the Sun will rise in Capricorn and the Moon comes home
to lay on a bed in a house that I will never see. No vacancies.
But not before dreams are illuminated from that place in the sky
where everyone is a child no matter how old they appear to be.
We all have to come from somewhen.
And we converge. And conjunct.
When I wrote Irgendwann, I was just playing with the idea that I can write poetry without investing so much of myself. That maybe, I can do art for art's sake and not for Arielle's sake or whoever else's. This is where it all started. I don't know where I am any more. Yeah. I suppose this is what being lost feels like.
Maybe, at that time, I believed that we had a Libra-Scorpio connection. It's a special thing— even those with only little interest in Astrology will tell you that. But I didn't know then that what had been posted on the bulletin board may not be your real birthday. I saw how you leered at Rod when he was telling you to join us October birthday celebrators. I suppose that's where I got the idea that in your team, you do play games.
Not long after writing Irgendwann, I wanted to learn how to play True Colours. I was sitting there at the bench by the door. That was when I first saw you smile at me. It was a Friday and you, Jo, and Louise were on your way home. I'd written a few things by then and I thought, “hey, what was that?” You should have seen how I smiled all the way from the office to my bedroom. But you wouldn't look at me any more the following Monday and the days after that. And that was when I thought that maybe, you do play games.
But as time went by and I discovered that you took your beliefs and spirituality seriously, that's when I started to second guess myself. One who believes in things of that nature doesn't play, or does she? And yet there we were, acting like chameleons, wearing each other's colours on an almost daily basis, as if we were planning it all out. So much fun. But was it as harmless as it was supposed to be? Right now, from where I lie here, I don't think so.
It's not important what I think, though. I was hoping that if it were, you'd ask. You never asked. Not until I sent you Lavenders and we chatted on Skype. It's strange how I never gave you any details yet you seem to understand. I take it that that's because you've been coming here, reading about yourself, about what I think and feel about you, about the other stuff that you may or may not be interested in. I will assume that you've read and seen everything, even this. How can you not be interested yet spend all this time coming here? How can you decide my fate without even asking about any and all of this; then, when I ask you to actually decide what happens to me, you plead to not be put in that position? How does that work?
I am not writing this to make you feel bad. I will never try to hurt you. And if I accidentally do, as I have recently, you know the lengths that I will go through to try to set things right. You've seen it— at least, I hope you have. I'm writing this simply to lay it all out so that, if you can get yourself to care, you will have some information about where I am coming from. Irgendwann. Somewhen. At some indefinite point in time. Another time.
“I fade into my darkness, mumbling forgotten songs.” I must be psychic. When I wrote that, I really didn't mean anything. It just sounded nice. I never thought I'd actually be in that situation— in the darkness. I don't even know how to play the songs I wrote about you any more.
I'm lost. You've lost me. I will start over and maybe I'll find you again.