There is space enough for the one who is sleeping, if you wish to stand, there are changes in a moonlife you will never afford. I hid behind the obvious, my pride, your fears, the distance you put between us by going. I told you I loved you. But I never knew if you heard. Look for me when I am gone. You will know me by the blue of the paint on my skin and the crimson of blood in my ash.

My sadness is like a wounded bird in your misty eyes, and I know I will never forget remembering the way you held me when it was dark or whispered my secret dreams of love silently when we made love merrily in the fields of our dreams in a night darker than our own souls yet much lighter than the laugh of the little girl I know you once were before you forgot you loved me.

We were running through the grass and gasping “laughter, laughter,” you spun around wild child you were everything to me right then. A friend of a friend of a friend told me that there was something you wanted to tell me, but for some reason, couldn't say it to my face. They told me about this Web site where you could write anything you wanted and that you'd written a sort of a letter to me. They told me how to find it. I went and looked. Twenty miles across the city, I'm still asleep. Snoring, probably, but still asleep. But visions of you dance in my head, in place of sugarplums. I'm not awake, but I'm thinking about you constantly.

I wonder if you will ever know how much the things you think could never possibly mean anything mean to my heart, to my lips, to my soul, to my skin that you touch with your perfect beautiful fingers as they lightly dance across my skin like dancing fingers.

Meanwhile, I know as you read this (a letter you obviously meant for me) you will resent my assumption that your love (something so personal, yet not so personal that you don't feel the need to share it with thousands of anonymous others?) is somehow a reflection of my perfect soul, of my love, my lips, my heart as it hurts as I realise you will never (never?) love me again the way you did with your fingers that first night or that last night, the night you held my crimson blood ash in your blue-painted eyeball skin hair lips and danced in my grassy meadow in the perfect night with my heart held up high in your hands like some sort of trophy of my love of the night that our dark souls left behind, forgotten




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