dig up the past just to hold its skull in my palm, like hamlet, and exclaim alas poor, Yorick ( or X or Y )… here hung those lips that i have kissed i know not how oft. where be your jibes now?
and that’s exactly what i do. defiant proclamation of my freedom when others rot in dim despair. i rise above them like a phoenix. though dead’s my past love, i’m yet alive to love you.
speaking to X today was almost a tragedy, Shakespearean, or else a Chekhov masterpiece of irony and loss.
his unhappiness at life, unjustified, seemed clearer, more logical, than my reasoned joy. he has that girl, you may remember? call her S1, for lack of better name. and yet, as i predicted, he needs that push she’s not providing; he wants a mother or else – a friend. but there she is, a girl he has to love back too. that too was never his.
and tragedy or none, he lost all i left him with, those shards of glass my heart had flaked upon his recieving palm. i used them to change him, but they are gone.
snowflakes have melted from the heat.
and he daren’t say it, but romance to him is dead, and hope vanishes at night, like a fleeting memory of me. and i just wish he’d love her more.
i’m not writing any lyrics for her
i realised they mean nothing
if that is love, then we are lost. lost souls where silence is the only truth. and yet, my love, that doesn’t scare me. my only fixation is that skull, it’s pearly mass so solid in my hands.
alas, poor Yorick.
alas, poor X.