far reaches

You seem like some distant dream. Like I had only imagined you all along. I can trace the edge of your face in my mind's eye, the width of your back and the small pout of your mouth. You stand there, slouched and sullen, the contour of your youthful shape set afire by some light that I couldn't be less interested in the origin of.

You, the apple of my eye.
I, a stupid Snow White.

I want to touch you. You look like you'd burn right through me, but that's not an excuse, merely an observation. An observation that I'm going to wave away like a wispy tendril of smoke when it should be as ominous as a thick black thundercloud. I'm going to touch you anyway. Time and the consequent increased awareness has done nothing to stop me, it makes me feel the pain more acutely but I can't step away from the flame.

You flex absentmindedly and glance at me with an expression I can't read. I can never read you right away. We speak two different languages. We embody two different languages. They are written in our eyes, our movements, etched on our souls. We can convey them with the simplest glance, the slightest gesture. We are the masters of our respective tongues.

I have somewhat deciphered yours. You consider mine blasphemy; incomprehensible babble, and so you turn a deaf ear. The only language you've ever known was yours, and hers. It was screamed in your ears and clawed into your chest.

There was never a purer, sweeter sound, but all you hear are warbled chords. I can only hope that my eyes will speak volumes above my voice, that it will clear the static that separates us.





It is the angels' song


and it is the same in every language.