Return of the Amalgam
And so I dream of that night 10 years ago soaked in the noon rain raging against the Tuscan sun, that I shed my tears for her and bid farewell. I, my body shattered, my heart shattered even more, clenching my fists, hardly letting go of her soul, that her bright body, I shall see no more, returning to the womb of the earth, with the lonesome violin bidding her farewell, as it pierces my soul into dolorous rapture. Amidst the black umbrellas, the black coats, black veils, of tears mingling with heavenly tears. I bid farewell to the love of my life.
It is as if her eyes were mine, and mine, hers, as we gaze into each other, hand in hand, under the lazy Roman skies, with the cooing of the doves and the clatter of hooves on the cobblestones, and the honking of the cars, the cusses of the townsfolk, the laughter of children and the scent of roses at the nearby shop mixing with the aroma of milk, sugar, chocolate, coffee and cinnamon. It was perfection.
Her hands, slender, fair, soft and gentle.
Her jet black hair flowing unto her bare marble shoulders like a river falling into a ravine.
Her eyes, infinite blackness, pure with lust and life. Innocently unbound.
Her lips, those small, dark, red lips stained with passion and wet with simple desire.
That twinkle, that spark, and the scent of her skin, intoxicating like sandalwood sweat.
She was mine. I was hers. In the lazy afternoons, we spent infinity.
We made music together. Her soft fingers traversing the veins of the violin, sometimes with joy, sometimes with soul, sometimes somnolence. I, with full force ravaging with cold, heat and ferocity the strings of the cello calling out the gods to beckon and despair.
We made perfect music together. Dissonant, harmonious, counterpoint, unison.
In the glass conservatory beneath the bright blue moon and the shivering stars our hearts and bodies became one. Her lips, sweet with tender passion and heat of pure love, on mine.
Lower to the earth her coffin lays, soaked with angelic tears and human tears, while from the distance someone intones…Pater Noster, qui es in caelis.
Everything becomes blank. I see her for the last time reaching out to me, her lips close to mine, my hand clasping her hands, her sweetness, her beauty, her pure love, for the last time, we kiss. I cannot let go. I will not let go. Until she finally slips away like sand scattered in the sea wind.
Sed Libera Nos a Malo…
She is now deep in Gaea’s arms. I, sitting still, soaked in the rain, captured and broken, desiring nothing else than see her resurrected before my very eyes. Whispering silent prayers to the winds hoping that the angels will listen and despair.
“Monique.” I call out.
“Je t’aime a jamais.”
It is as if her eyes were mine, and mine, hers, as we gaze into each other, hand in hand, under the lazy Roman skies, with the cooing of the doves and the clatter of hooves on the cobblestones, and the honking of the cars, the cusses of the townsfolk, the laughter of children and the scent of roses at the nearby shop mixing with the aroma of milk, sugar, chocolate, coffee and cinnamon. It was perfection.
Her hands, slender, fair, soft and gentle.
Her jet black hair flowing unto her bare marble shoulders like a river falling into a ravine.
Her eyes, infinite blackness, pure with lust and life. Innocently unbound.
Her lips, those small, dark, red lips stained with passion and wet with simple desire.
That twinkle, that spark, and the scent of her skin, intoxicating like sandalwood sweat.
She was mine. I was hers. In the lazy afternoons, we spent infinity.
We made music together. Her soft fingers traversing the veins of the violin, sometimes with joy, sometimes with soul, sometimes somnolence. I, with full force ravaging with cold, heat and ferocity the strings of the cello calling out the gods to beckon and despair.
We made perfect music together. Dissonant, harmonious, counterpoint, unison.
In the glass conservatory beneath the bright blue moon and the shivering stars our hearts and bodies became one. Her lips, sweet with tender passion and heat of pure love, on mine.
Lower to the earth her coffin lays, soaked with angelic tears and human tears, while from the distance someone intones…Pater Noster, qui es in caelis.
Everything becomes blank. I see her for the last time reaching out to me, her lips close to mine, my hand clasping her hands, her sweetness, her beauty, her pure love, for the last time, we kiss. I cannot let go. I will not let go. Until she finally slips away like sand scattered in the sea wind.
Sed Libera Nos a Malo…
She is now deep in Gaea’s arms. I, sitting still, soaked in the rain, captured and broken, desiring nothing else than see her resurrected before my very eyes. Whispering silent prayers to the winds hoping that the angels will listen and despair.
“Monique.” I call out.
“Je t’aime a jamais.”
posted by ohme at 12:39 AM
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