The illiterate voice of pain from your love bygone is trying to limn its ethereal wail through a one final hymn. It forges a litany from a language unbeknownst from my mortal tongue. It tries to depict its lament and the churning passion within, but it finds man’s words short and shallow, for it cannot dive into the abysmal darkness I crept in nor see the warm light bathed by the memories of joy. Although, I find my reason plagued by ignorance and idiocy I carve in words the ghosts that simply won’t let me be, for his ailing is my ailing thrown unto the dusty pits of time. Truly, these are the words kept me coiled to your sea.
Perhaps, one day you’ll pass upon my days again to listen to these litanies that warbled on your ascension. Then, grant mercy and dispel the mourning I bewail. Here, listen to the days you are no more.
“You arrested the violent tempest in my heart when you came. The deathly winds that once scathed and the dark clouds that were once are no more.
“You entered my life like a pebble thrown on the placid lake of mediocrity. You set forth the tides of living and the ripples of the waters unto the flowing river of my dreams.
“O, yes. Dreams. Our days are shared visions of morrows, of hopes, of kindled wishes from our ageless hearts. We spoke as if the world is ours and we, in return, to the earth. How lucid were the canopies. How real was the salt of the sea in the air. How enamored was the music of violin, lute, and piano during the sunset of that place. How comforting was your hand in the morose days. How serenity bore upon my heart when your voice an angel ingrained, and the smile that you contained in every waking nourished my spirit for the better.
“All of these are life’s gifts, and is most real. For amidst the distance, I could stare at the mirrors of your eyes, and I could feel our souls’ embrace.
“You carried a divine melody that gently whispers to my ears, like a cold breeze in the unbearable desert, which I too often, verge. I held your hand and we could cross the scorching dunes it consists.
“But how am I to picture you when you are gone? How could I keep pace to the ambling of my thoughts when it is like unbound pages of a book blown by gusts of indifference, scattered frantically to horizons that memories can’t seek, and imagination will forever err to describe.
“The pictures kept enshrined appear to me like divine ghosts, pure, pristine, yet forever afar from my fading gaze. It wakes me to dark moments of dawn and dusk where all the colors are stripped away. Thus, the open hours of morning are wishing hours to dreamland, and sleep a forbidden fruit I guiltily savor to the restless banishment of loneliness’ pain.
“The pain, the sweet pain, seems like a vicious poison in my veins coursing to the core of my heart—to finally consume the final pieces of joy and mirth. It will one day demolish and pillage the shrine and altar of my love to the ripping jaws of oblivion.
“But perhaps at the place of burnt images births a flower of wisdom. Yes. Even pain does teach that is, if the source is immaculately founded. Although, nothing is heard except for the cries and reeling memoirs as of now, a madman I crest upon the many, and a fool digging a grain of sand upon a grave. But isn’t it a love lost is still love, and love should always be honored, paved tribute to, even at the cost of endless pain and tears. And hence, a tribute, a litany, a longing all meshed into one where these words are borne to.
“Though mortals may misconstrue the language of hearts, for it limits the mystery to a definition of scholastic articulation, cornering it to reason when it is beyond it. Yet what resort have I got when I only have my voice and pen, for all of that which is dear are gone and frothed to the ethers. So let these be said of your love though, at the end, these words you may find short and shallow.”