♥sickmodboy!

livejournal~papershields & poison quills I met her in five morning whispers, six stolen kisses, three twilight cigarettes & nine sips of tea. Tiffany Halifax lies silent beside me. I check. Yes, she is breathing. Only sleeping. Polaroid pictures of past life constellations scattered on the floor, an empty wine bottle in the corner. Only the ghosts of stars who died thousands of years ago haunt the attic window. I was dreaming of her. Is she dreaming of me? Perhaps we only exist in someone else’s dream. Somewhere between the perfect greys of Atlantic seaside twilight sketches and a graveyard of fallen angels buried beneath the restless Pacific waters, the ghosts of two hopeless lovers weaved blood soaked copper wires, stale cigarette hallucinations, and sea-scented spices creating a moment of beauty never to be repeated. Such words would forever prove to be elusive, if not for the stolen hours shared with another poorly stitched heart. Am I dreaming of her or is she dreaming of me? Perhaps we only exist in someone else's dream. On that night it didn't matter, we were lost in the sighs of joyful resignation and floating empty on ancient Celtic seas. The perpetual pleasures of eternal sleep revealed her secrets; we slipped inside, lost track of time, and echoed the emotions of changing seasons. I asked, "Are you scared of me." "A little." she replied. "Why?" I asked. "Because you love me so much.” she said. "You shouldn't love me." she pleaded. "I'm sorry." I sighed. "Don't be." she said. "Well, then I won't." I replied. I will never be sorry for loving you. This story has yet to end, this narrative will continue, death awaits me in the beginning, and all I still desire is just a little more time with only you...I love you. Flip through pictures curious, grotesque, and strange. Images that speak one thousand words, but suffer from lack of voices. Now open the doors to message boards, chat rooms, and other digital spaces, and read words sculpted by hands of various skill and grace. Interesting and immediate, yet they all lack faces. Little by little in pixels and bits we protect our senses in neat plastic places. In perfect resolution & perfect measure & shape. Save them for later, forever and ageless, reflections of a one sided world that betrays a life of multiple phases. I was driving home 6 seconds into 6 o'clock in the morning, day 6. I felt dead after an intimate moment. Strange to feel numb after such an expression that involves the body. But it was just that, an outer body experience at a time when my body was at its most involved. I was going through an act. Acting out the motions. A dirty secret but somewhere a dirty truth. Trying to replace a person whose image I keep in a drug. A voice I keep in a song. Staring as the night bleeds sunlight all over a once clear blue sky. I take them together, remember I am still dead inside. opaque glass lanterns, fiery convulsions decanted pulsating amber and saffron, spill from yawning windows, conjure shadows shaped by hag-ridden slumbering swaddled children nestled against linen wings and satin halos.