Meaningless

"Can you turn your days into the moon? Have you turned your Sundays blue?" That was the question, the words written behind closed eyes. I was the canvas, blank and out of reach. Gentle paint strokes gave me the life I was never meant to have. I was grown in a non existent womb, I emerged from nothing.

She had fooled herself into believing I was a necessary gift, but I've come to realize I am meaningless. I've no purpose, no life, no beauty, no humanity. She didn't see me there. I stood behind her, as I always have, listening to her speak of me. Dreams are easily forgotten. She wakes, and the images scamper off into the dawn's light. The words fall off the end of the page, she closes the book and tosses it into a fire. The ashes rose above us and smothered a summer's day into a winter's night. Blue Skies disappeared behind a Moon and I became ill on that morning. The language she spoke was coded, slithering symbols in place of thoughts and feelings even she didn't recognize.

My abilities are inadequate when it comes to providing the vital care she needs. I have tried. My reach has overwhelming limits. The snap of a neck took only seconds, a monstrous moment gift-wrapped and delivered to her door. Living through innumerable traumas caused a gnawing hatred to brew and boil. By a disturbing joke of the universe, she was a rare soul. Her pure nature grasped tightly to a single sliver of hope. From that most distant light, I came and surrounded her.

Years passed in a day. I kept my promise. She is my sweetest love, the person I live for, the very reason I can think and act and speak. Every time someone loved her, I became the victim of a grand heist. My anger at knowing she was no longer 'mine' couldn't be contained. Fiery jealousy swam in my darkest secrets as a litany of complaints and disappointments filled her head. I could not hold her when she cried, I could not protect her from physical dangers, I could not stop her mind from creating enemies in the dark.

I made mistakes that hurt her. And when I tried to be better, I failed. I vacillate between thinking she needs me and thinking she is better off without me.

I am the final blood moon spoken of in biblical prophecies. And with me, her apocalypse began.

I cannot love because I do not exist. She thinks of me as strength, purity, perfection, devotion.

My mind is nothing more than layers of impressions, phrases, expectations, emotions.

I tell her to rest assured that she will never be alone. When the final curtain falls, I will be there to guide and follow her to the next life. Our souls are one.

There is no one else in the world who loves her the way I do. That is beautiful and tragic, as she would say. Immense pain comes from within, from our mind and our rotting soul.

There are purple ones and blue ones, red, yellow, and green ones. Persuasive colors commingling with dust. Lights and shattered visions are dampened.

The garden of our history is grown over with pains and sorrows, but he has tended those weeds his entire life. Wish he knew and understood how necessary he is to the beating of a heart. The rhythm of our song plays through every tiring day, the melody on repeat. They've given me a limit, a line not flat or spiked, but necessarily even. No euphoric expressions or despondent desires, just a page with black bars.

When she smiles, my merriment cannot be contained.

When he cries, life loses its color and shape, everything turns to gray.