(no subject)
When most speak of betrayal they're talking of the betrayal of a lover or of friend.
When I speak of the betrayal I speak of my own words. Which I guess is the same.
Carefully-crafted sentences can no longer be bothered to hold my head above the waters. Well-placed pauses can only hold the demons of soliloquy back for so long.
Before, every word was a splatter of rain, incessantly pounding at the window of my mind as their endless noise lulled me to sleep, each drop being lovingly forgotten by dawn like a new found lover.
Now the rains never come and the silence is a desert creeping its grains of sand until they find me unconscious upon their shores of sleep. The rains have gone and I sit stupefied, wondering what I have left to sacrifice in order to bring them home. How do you appease the gods of misdealt meaning? How do you make a muse of absence?
Easy they say. You just breathe and form your mouth until the syllables come out, molded by a part of you that doesn't exist when you want it to. Like your courage, it has sold you out to not even the highest but to the next damn bidder. So we gasp at night in our beds, waiting for the words to bridge the universes sitting inches apart from us; dying stars aren't we all.