Sunday 28 June 2020

Sweet Nothings

Sometimes it's not the things people say that give us strength when we need it most.  It's the things they don't.  The things left out.  Those omissions that enable us to stand despite our exhaustion, to dance despite our fragility, or kiss despite our trepidation.  Sometimes we need that kind of silence, because this place is often cruel to both angels and mortals.  Ravaged and mocked.  Broken by the wraith-cults who deem themselves gods of this fallen, nightmare realm.
   Sometimes I wonder where I stand in all this chaos.  The winged boy lost in the demimonde, fighting monsters.  An outline, or an echo.  Movements like the fingerprints of ghosts.  I cast visions and poetry in my wake like offered keys.  Bottled messages for anyone kind enough to pay attention.  I was here, they say.  I died fighting.  I was here and I died trying to save you.
   I suppose a stance of any kind is just the difference between what is and what could be.  Praying there's hope enough in the as-yet-unrealised.  The hope of honouring a kindness, an act of bravery or truth.  I think that learning to love is the truest of all things, isn't it?
   Silence can be so powerful.
   Even a ghost has fingerprints, if you take the time to learn them.  They can speak honest volumes.  Thoughtful gestures.  Carefully-crafted gifts.  Sometimes I think of our most noble deeds as the poems we are too shy to write.  The sweet nothings we don't quite know how to say, even at our most seen and accepted.  We care nonetheless.  We really do.
   Kasi has hope.
   He will never abandon his friends.  I promise you that, dear ones.
   I'm grateful for each one of you.  For wisdom of blackbird and starlight, shining like the well-wishes of a distant muse.  For my cherished star finally raised to maturity.  Barefoot and scintillating.  For my mirrored maidens.  Watchful, betrothed; dark and light and tailored to perfection.  Elegant tempest like the hand of my Father.
   And I'm grateful for the girl in lavender fields.  The one distilling perfect worship through the workings of ivory and fret.  My beautiful, bright-eyed friend whose music held me in the doorway when I was utterly broken.  Melodies like rain.  Like Heaven's healing balm.  These things that helped me to kiss again.  And dance, and stand.  I want to remain worthy of that embrace.  To be bold, courteous and true.
   I pray you sense my heart on your sleeve, princess.  All the ways you saved me.  All the ways you cared.  I hope you know that you have a friend for much more than life.  Let my deeds be all the things I cannot say.  Falling into written silences like the tender fingerprints of ghosts.  And angels.  Like sensing a stolen glance tucked away in a photograph, or hearing a secret smile hidden in a song.

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