Overture
-Now- you said the war was over and the blood left your hands, that your fingernails were empty of innocent flesh. You said that the planes were gone and that your return was eminent, that you were coming back from the battle fields with an empty head of blonde hair; you said that the war was over, that you would return clean and blood free, that you would hold my hands without fear.
-Now- you said the shock is gone, but I heard screeches fill your tent at night as your comrade writes, that your nose bleeds over the pillowcases after the horrours left your throat. You said you were fine and returning home, that the war was over and the planes were gone.
I heard the siren's songs ripped the night as I crawled underground away from dust and gravel and tears. A ragged doll with an unrealistic heart. You said you were returning, that the war was over and the planes were gone; but that night I crawled alone as the recent ruins of parliamentary buildings littered over the lidded streets.
They said you were unstable that the horrours of war times soiled your soul, that the cries of the innocent carnage imprinted inside your tympanum and played its demoniac symphony while your eyes were close. Egalitarianism fevers of troubled voices poured ludicrous emotions of eerie apparitions adorning the grounds you walked on. They said you were not making progress and that the fevers increased sporadically, they said you were hallucinating and in a child like manner you spoke french and cried for russet curls. They said you were dreaming of unrealistic proportions, told me you smoked frequently and that your regal face was now marred by the burden of imperious anger and delusion. They told me your bones were angry and fragile, that the blood frequently spat out of your mouth. They attached images of your new persona to the mechanical, impassive letter. Images they put on my hands personally; they said sorry and looked down to my shaking fingers, eyes glued to the golden band around my finger; they said nothing else, not a word and parted.
-Now- I had images to attach to the howl of desperation emanating from each one of the scotch-soaked letter you sent each week, in an almost ceremonial, yet mundane way. Images that I cradled at night and sought pleasure from the incandescent fire behind your azure pupils, as desperate fingers lingered closed to the gushing obsession, but never enough to douse the thirst for you. Blue fire once gentle now chaotic, beautifully engulfed on an electric, eclectic frenzy as if painted by Germanic Ottonian painters, eyes consumed by the arduous errors of a failed caused you and I once gave our lives for.
Hunched in raggedy clothes aloofly giving away meager traces of blemished skin stretching over curved bones, accommodating deplorably the pressure of animalistic vehemence. But to me you were beautiful in your own manic way; consumed by plerotic ideals of fulfillment. Beautiful in the never ending madness infesting your intestines. You said the war was over and the planes were gone; but here I found myself rendering my last feelings into blanched pieces of parchment in the confines of our room, lopsidedly dreaming of sun faded memories and corridors of open doors, and aghast faces. Yet here I am drawing silently, mercilessly into an ocean of photographs marked by the standard blonde silvery hair and the darkness proverbial abyss hanging right around us; images depicting the eminent conflict, the contradictory belief of fighting for your god. Enthralled by the way your hand connected with mine and the cocoon our bodies melted into in that November night; basking in the ethereal fervour of your taste upon my jaw, I laid still imagining the susurration of your words along my spine encased in the throbbing sensation of being yours.
-Now- you said that you were fine, that your return was closely linked to my support, that you needed me as much as I needed you, that the air was poisoned by the powder and dried gore. You said that the battlefield held you captive in the overwhelming fragility of the totalitarian regime we fought to overthrow. You scribbled poems along the margins and promised that you shock was slowly receding, that the finality was crawling, approaching and tearing its way into your being. You wrote of beauty and the prosperous future over the eastern oceans under the warmer sun, you wrote of beauty as you described the last memory of our climax, of the way my back arched under your hands and we turned one next to the ocean.
I wrote you of my undisclosed desires and the lurking necessity of having you near, of the chain tied around my neck and ankles, of platonic amours and jousting affairs. I wrote of my thoughts on the war and the qualms I had regarding it. I combined ideas of pleasure and pain for your entertainment, reminiscences of masochistic flavours as they clouded my sight and brought release, I drew the waves of calamity as it swept through my body and I reached the pinnacle with your name on my lips, curling my limbs on lascivious contours as the scent of your skin suddenly attacked my responses and galvanized my over roused senses. Ephemeral release of an unseen foundation. Falling enrapture to the summer at Toulouse and the excavations around the German Rhineland, bewitched by the sounds of the flocking winds carrying your melodious laugh. I needed you. Needed you to be strong and keep the mirages away, needed you to be my thriving flower throbbing with angelical beauty of Hellenistic features, I just needed you, bruised, mad, tortured by the massacre and daze of the falling bombs. I needed my flower to be back.
You said the war was over and the planes were gone, you said the English summer throve on beauty and incandescent sparrows reminded you of my frantic curls. Overzealous phone calls multiplying into tears and shouts of terror, vivid phone calls culminating in the pinnacle of my ecstasy and the quivering of my limbs, my downfall with your name resonating in the air. My first and last everything, the one and only cliché draped in the childhood shroud of early carnal experiences, the feeling of falling unrestricted into the bliss of passion and pure joy. Closing my eyes to your shadow of your face and waking to your silver locks clouding my sight. My perfect passé romance carved out of a French folklore tale.
You said for me to wait, that your return was approaching and that the days were deteriorating. You said you needed me and I needed you. I belong to you.