Dorothy, come back home
i.I have let you go for the sake of my love, but now it is the end of my eternity. Come back home, let me be recklessly in love with you for one more time and let me be consumed by you in every way possible.
ii.Dorothy, I need one summer with you to feel my skin being warm, to see your honey glazed eyes sparkle in our backyard as we talk about our wild youth.
iii. I've had dreams about how we travel around the city and visit the museums, Dorothy, come back home, lets visit everywhere where we have never been before and I'll show you how it feels to be in love in all those places.
iv. It is the end of my eternity, come back home, let us dance on our favourite song from our childhood, I promise I'll hold you tight and never let go, ever again! Dorothy, give me an evening filled with our desires.
v. Dorothy, come back home, it is the end of my eternity, let me have my love for one last time to have a happy ending.
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To my poets
The fire was splendid. It blazed and shined before our eyes, giggling and wiggling in the air, innocently making us laugh.
We all sat under the moonlight, sharing a silent moment of peace around a campfire.
I, though, selfishly wished it would get wider and bigger, until everything burnt down to ashes, until every spark turned into a step through the suffocating reality that we might never see each other again. I thought it would have been a reason to send letters to each other, something that would engrave our faces in our mind. I wished, as a another spark flew by, that it would burn until tomorrow, surprising us all. Again, it would have been something we would call each other for, right in the middle of the night, only to make sure that we all remembered it.
It was pretty annoying, to think that the fire would eventually quiet down, that we would feel cold, that to warm ourselves up we'll have to go our own ways, to homes we couldn't quite find in each other.
And yet, despite my overflowing wishes, the fire was still too shy, and the wind too motherly to make it big–dangerous– enough to bring us together again. We were already too cold, we were only battling against everything and nothing, just to stay here, on a random roof, watching small flames smile at the world before disappearing, while delivering ourselves to endless stars, wondering if they ever looked back.
Worse that our silent tears only calmed the fire, making it a vague memory and it confused me. The fact that we were about to say goodbye, the fact that it was hard to smile, the fact no verses of poetry came to me confused me. What was missing ? It was the perfect ending, the tragedy that we all secretly seeked. We were all hopeless poets, tortured artists, lost in their art to never come back. Perhaps, despite any other thought, it was the reason we were parting ways.
As in a small attempt to snap us back to reality, one of us asked :
_"Do you think they would hear us if we screamed a little ?"
_"Depends on who you're talking about." answers another.
_"The stars, silly."
_"Obviously. Not that they would blame us."
_"I think they will." I said, " blame us I mean. They already have a lot to worry about, like falling and becoming a mere wish." I look up, enough to see a sea of shining stars, slightly pale in front of the city's light. Even if they were hard to see, they looked beautiful. "But I think they'll listen. They always do" I explain.
_"It feels pretty lonely though."
That shut us up. A little too harshly, like it reminded us of an unwelcome memory. But again, we were poets, it wasn't enough to leave us breathless.
Lonely ? Perhaps. Yet the stars are way more lonely than we will ever be. They are just the background to the beauty of the moon for so many. Maybe we were lonely for different reasons, maybe we were brought together from different places, maybe loneliness ate them whole and left a little bit of me. Perhaps, selfishly, it was why we were parting ways. But, in all the honesty we helplessly avoided, we were all mesmerized by the same forgotten beauty, and this is what made us come together in the first place.
But nobody tried to answer for a moment, all taken aback by the flames that soon turned into a blazing fire.
Do the stars really look back ? Or are they just the reflection of someone else's longing ?
_"Then we will look back as well," I finally answered in a breathless delight, "not just try to, but embrace this shared loneliness like an old friend, because it is the closest the stars can be to us" I concluded, my throat strangely tight, answering my poets' silent question.
We will, I'm sure. We will look at the same stars again, even if our hearts skip a beat while doing so, even if we were out of breath, we will look back at each other.
We will make ourselves immortal in each other's soul. Because this is what poets do, they love and die endlessly.
We know, that the only way we should die is as lovers. We die loving, we die every day as we make promises, as we trust and lose sleep. We love dearly and it kills us. We know that every letter is a thread that holds our hearts together, that hang them up in the sky. The same hearts that we would gaze at every night. The same hearts that we hope would look back, that sometimes break, turning into a shooting star. We worry that our heart may fall and turn into a wish, yet offer it to whom we love.
We know, very clearly, that every breath is a desire, too complete to be taken back. That each of our hearts are a star. That every star looks back. That our heart are yours to wish upon.
That's what poets write about. That's what poets die for. That's why we live and walk on this earth. To let our heart catch a breath or skip a beat. This is what poets are.
This is what we will always be.
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