Make a movie in which characters start of with the plot in the Victorian era, but as the story progresses, the eras in the background change with time actually passing at a fast rate in the plot.
So the first scene would be set in the 1850s for example, but the second in the 1870s, even though the difference in the plot between those two scenes isn’t 20 years, but rather 3 minutes.
The space between your legs desires nothing, although you hide yours between mine.
While my skin shelters yours, your hand, now so close to my chest that it becomes my hand.
Take this hand and dig deeper into this body, perhaps to search for something which shall remain concealed.
Devour this flesh, my love. Commence from the bottom.
And devour me until I’ve perished completely into a place wrapped with warmth which belongs to nobody.
Whisper in screams, darling. Say something that I’ll forget.
Fill this body with sounds which are destined only to be spoken now.
Smell like spring. Fill the floor with what obscures your youth, and the sheets with violent contortions.
Because Eventually, something shall begin to dissolve. Your body into mine or mine into yours.
Furrowed by hands that shred us to splinters.
When you died, I didn’t cry.
I tried to imagine you alive, driving the car you loved so much, just before it flipped. And then It did.
What went through your head when you came to understand of your own mortality?
Still, I never imagined smashing your face into a million pieces.
When you spoke to say what you did, your words travelled far.
They travelled through changing landscapes and passing clouds.
They travelled through echoes which repeated what you said.
They travelled through sunsets, and waxes and wanes of the moon.
And Then Your words waxed and waned.
Because such words, you would never speak.
Perhaps I was too far away.
Move your lips again.
Unless you’ve disowned them altogether.
The most tragic day was that when I lost my last memory of you.
Now I can’t remember what it was or who you were.
And these words make no sense to me.
As if those memories, these verses, belong to someone else. You.
Some days, the image of a woman appears in my mind and fills me with love.
Is this the woman I speak of?
The woman Who thought of me daily until she had days left no more.
I wish to search for such a woman and ask of her memories.
Perhaps I will find myself in them, loving the woman I lost to time.
“Luxurious, creamy, vanilla bean ice cream”. I take a bite.
It’s neither of those things.
Yet, it’s called something it isn’t.
And What would disguise as a black cup which I clasp in my palm?
“A lady with the daintiest smile”. And you were all of those.
“Take this pill. It will solve all your problems.”
I open the window and look at the clouds outside.
All my problems. Which problems would those be? The problem that I’ll be dead soon? Or that I never received your love?
My body, now smothered with needles.
Clouds have no such problems. They just become.
I wish I could just become. Become you.
You, who won’t be dead soon; you, who was loved so dearly.
I’m unsure of what’s more unbearable.
Still, I’m certain that you will be the last thing I think about.
I want to weep at this tragedy.
I splash water over my eyes and let it drip down me cheeks. A lonely tear and moist cheek is all I have left to give you.
I save a whisper, for when I see you again.
It’s now dark outside and The clouds have disappeared.
Or is it my eyes that won’t open?
All my days think of you.
All my words speak of your beauty.
All my memories strive to remember you.
My poems slumber in this book, just for you.
All my love becomes you.
But what do you become, my love?
Everything around you fades away.
Today you wear the figure of a woman.
These quivering eyes know of the words you sing.
Words which bind the melody that’s filled this room.
An echo encores what you’ve just whispered into the air.
And what do you smell like tonight, my darling?
I wish to speak of this unfaltering beauty.
Yet, I desire to conceal you in this meadow.
Everything around me fades away.
And Today I wear the figure of a man in love. Love, whose fragrance fills this meadow.
It needs a walking stick with a ball attached to the end, which it rolls on the ground to find direction.
It can hear better than most, and wears dark sunglasses even on a cloudy day.
Sometimes, people help it cross the street, in exchange for a little gratitude.
It reads letters by moving its fingers over contours pierced on the surface.
Almost never does it falter, so certain of itself.
Yes, love is visually impaired.