biphonic

You are the sustained drone behind a single melody. You are the slow moving hand of a grandfather clock and the steady swinging of its pendulum, back and forth and back. This morning you were the cold air that flooded into my lungs and ripped me away from last night's sleep, and in the evening I could have sworn you were in the silence between the sun and the sea, gradually dimming until the night came alive and frantically scurried about. I'm not sure what it is about you that lifts his hands and then drops them gradually-- a slight decrescendo, your hands rested on my heart as if to force it deeper into its cage. He makes my spirit flutter with uncontainable affection and yet you are the insatiable hunger for freedom beyond what this body has to offer; if I were to wake up beside you and taste the air around me, it would taste of roses and the sea and the golden hue of sunlight. 

There's something peculiar about you that has me constantly folding and unfolding, waking up to realize that pleasant dreams are no more welcoming than cold sheets and a clean pillowcase. I can't look at her without feeling sorrow gnawing at my chest, or without hearing her eyes engage in silent conversation between herself and the ghosts within the walls. She says she is unsure, but that is only because I am unsure; because I don't know why everything reminds me of you, even when it is only in the rise before the soft ripple, or the light of a star arriving millions of years after its death. Everything is so interconnected, you told me-- you have always been the tie between now and then-- you've always been the time spent waiting. I am always waiting. I once told myself that I look too deeply into things. I'm afraid to tell myself that you are almost always, always, always on my mind.