In the wallows.
By JuneStar.
Her name is Trinity and she holds a story I'm so hard trying to deveil. After all this time together I can easily notice what hides behind her face. I can blindly discern her worry from her joy, her sadness from her pleasure, but I cannot do nothing when she sleeps. When slumber takes over her I just become small, insignificant, playing a strange fortune teller role, playing with the crystal-clear mist surrounding the alchemy sleeping in her skin.
That's when I notice how much I love her.
That's when i notice how much I need her.
That's when I notice every little meaning occulted in her. And I realize, buring all my romantic traditions, that when she sleeps, I'm in the gallows, acting alike a naughty child trying to take advantage of the situation.
But I know, that no matter how hard I try, she won't wake up. And I cannot ask this life for nothing more, nothing at all. Nothing but this mad merriment.
Suddenly the shadows disappear, and I'm the one who's sleeping now. In my dream I see her, but I have to say that it's not always easy to find different paths for the savior and for the man-in-love. I see her falling and I'm not there, I'm not helping her although she needs me, she actually does. And where am I? Still gazing at all her beauty, still enchanted by the soft mechanisms giving rise to her silken breath. And she's running out of time, running out of life, and I'm still trapped inside a viscous prision called dream. A prision that I cannot smell or touch. Deja Vu.
And a car crashes.
And her black journey comes to an end.
I wake up from a dream from hell and I search for her pulse, for a vital sign to stop all these ghosts flying over my head, pushing me somewhere out there, somewhere far her. Far from the one who needs me.
But she is still sleeping, and, as always, I cannot dismantel her quiet expressions. I cannot force her to wake up.
I stand up and I walk to the door, prying for some oxygen.
And she remains the same, beautiful.
And leaning my hands on the door to make sure that I did not miss my touch, I turn around and I see her. I guess she never felt so loved, even when she's not here to hug me back.
Her name is Trinity and she holds a story I'm so hard trying to deveil. After all this time together I can easily notice what hides behind her face. I can blindly discern her worry from her joy, her sadness from her pleasure, but I cannot do nothing when she sleeps. When slumber takes over her I just become small, insignificant, playing a strange fortune teller role, playing with the crystal-clear mist surrounding the alchemy sleeping in her skin.
That's when I notice how much I love her.
That's when i notice how much I need her.
That's when I notice every little meaning occulted in her. And I realize, buring all my romantic traditions, that when she sleeps, I'm in the gallows, acting alike a naughty child trying to take advantage of the situation.
But I know, that no matter how hard I try, she won't wake up. And I cannot ask this life for nothing more, nothing at all. Nothing but this mad merriment.
Suddenly the shadows disappear, and I'm the one who's sleeping now. In my dream I see her, but I have to say that it's not always easy to find different paths for the savior and for the man-in-love. I see her falling and I'm not there, I'm not helping her although she needs me, she actually does. And where am I? Still gazing at all her beauty, still enchanted by the soft mechanisms giving rise to her silken breath. And she's running out of time, running out of life, and I'm still trapped inside a viscous prision called dream. A prision that I cannot smell or touch. Deja Vu.
And a car crashes.
And her black journey comes to an end.
I wake up from a dream from hell and I search for her pulse, for a vital sign to stop all these ghosts flying over my head, pushing me somewhere out there, somewhere far her. Far from the one who needs me.
But she is still sleeping, and, as always, I cannot dismantel her quiet expressions. I cannot force her to wake up.
I stand up and I walk to the door, prying for some oxygen.
And she remains the same, beautiful.
And leaning my hands on the door to make sure that I did not miss my touch, I turn around and I see her. I guess she never felt so loved, even when she's not here to hug me back.