Loneliness is so much richer in a crowd.
False flashes of happiness skim over you like patches of sun between all the shadow. But nothing penetrates your skin. You don’t live, you just float, dreamlike, for awhile, eyes closed or open, you just… exist.
You keep losing track of yourself in the mirror. The photograph doesn’t count missing pieces or the inner picture of a brain anymore.
You strange relic to be categorized and placed somewhere not too prominent, some desecrated Venus to half-interested visitors. You’re hard and smooth as stone, you’re inaccessible, always just out of reach of the rare hand grasped to touch.
You’re not to be saved or relished by anyone.
There’s no path to get lost on in your head, no map to follow home, no ship at port bearing signs of departure.
There are no more conversations worth having or kisses to be stolen behind a smile.
All overtures are purely academic. Disavowal doesn’t make a sound in an echo chamber.
When you were younger, and almost beautiful, you shone like a light to the world. But you carried a constant pang and a dread. They were your only constants in a tempest. Death felt black and hollow and lay somewhere between your heart and the brief eclipse of a dead child once taken from there.
Silence, these days, is a relief from the lies offering escape or release for you. There is nothing to return to. There is no destination ahead.
Love is too heavy an abstraction for a literal mind. Music and lies and make believe passions do not move you the way they used to.
Desire is the new death knell, desire in your ice age, desire that can never be answered.
Ghosts cannot be measured or weighed, merely forgotten in the absence of appraisal.
So I’m using the metaphor of a broken goddess of love statue because I’m a forty year old woman and worry about losing the Aphrodite aspect of my life sometimes. Which is pretty realistic but whenever I think I know a door is closed to me another one opens up unexpectedly, so what do I know?! 😉