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01-31-2016, 08:12 AM
The silence rang, almost deafening to her ears. She’d wanted to hear his thoughts, his sentiments, on songs and tunes, on strains and verses, on the nuances and motions he felt float across the earth. A moment or two passed before Lena thought she’d been mistaken; that all her arias and soft hums and floating choruses had been a mistake, and she’d already chased away the stars melded and molded to his frame. Her smile faltered, wondering if she should fold it away and save it for a day she couldn’t possibly ruin, her eyes took to the ground, and Imogen shifted between her legs, but naught else transpired. Perhaps they were all too lost, and none of it truly mattered. Maybe a melody was just a melody, and didn’t persevere amongst all hearts and souls. Maybe harmony was just a silly enchantment she harbored and no one cared to love, cherish, and honor it as she – for there were better things to do than sing and dance and waltz upon reflections of the sky. Maybe the earth only music for those with who wanted to hear it, and she’d played a part of an instrumental accord, meant for serenading, meant for orchestras, but nothing more. But then his voice finally emerged, and she followed its strands, its features, its rubble and ruin, to where he stared at the heavens, to where all the flickering constellations joined and flared. He heard sadness. He touched sorrow. He flanked desolation. She knew all those sounds intimately; the piercing lament, the miserable dirge, the haunting requiem. She understood how they lingered deep down into one’s bones and through their skin, how the sonnets changed into pyres, how they curled and carved like mutinous heathens down into the fathoms of one’s heart. They could pry and distort, mangle and tether, shackle and lock, leaving the essence of melancholy and despondency in nearly every wake – but not if the listener altered their views. You are worthless, her mother had said, and it’d been the first ballad of heartache blooming within her young, fragile mind. But she’d overcome, ran rampant against an unseen enemy, pursued the noxious spirits floating through her core – and then, sometimes faltered just as blatantly into the gallows, immersed and entrenched in the poisonous vectors of her existence. The contemplations were searing, scorching, and unwinding, intrigue incensed, curiosity kindled. So what made him ache and hear the columns of gloom and misery? What had he seen, heard, or touched? What horrors plagued him? What memories damned him? What consigned a celestial body to oblivion? What did the stars worry about? What allured and beguiled and twisted the heavens? All the queries floated through her mind, varnished and tarnished, too heavy to be asked, too heady to be ignored. Lena’s eyes followed his, across the wild, luminescent ramparts, the corridors of midnight blue and brilliant, blinding whims, pondering over the weight of happiness and how long it took to embrace it – and then watch as it broke away almost instantly. Her voice did the same, lacquered in their sweet melody even as the truth shuttered and shattered, gaze never leaving his spellbinding frame. “It does.” She didn’t sigh or quiver, tremble or shudder, in the wake of the truth. She’d heard the sounds of regret and misery too many times to waver in its stroke, in its finesse. Daringly, perhaps with too much audacity, too much boldness, her maw reached out to touch and caress his shoulder (wondering what stars felt like, the tangibility of gods and heavens), a supportive nuance, lips gracing the air with more refinement, with practiced ease of a soul who’d been wounded and barbed and thorned over and over again. “But you can change its tune.” Whether he wanted to or not would be the true question – if he aspired to swim against the current, if he yearned to escape the weight of melancholy and sorrow, if he wanted to do more than wallow in wretchedness. her passions are made of nothing but the finest part of pure love LENA |
@Atlas
