Goodbye

In past dreams my eyes are still hanging onto the windows ledge. A tired ghost stands behind me to walk my sorrow to the gallows below. At least this time, I may find a tender comfort in his presence. And you, so preoccupied with which bags to bring - you hardly notice the ones you leave behind. Hardly noticing the ones I positioned by the door. 

It seems all lies have their truth, at least that's what the tabloids have been promulgating - a certain particular taste of misinformation toned to turn the ear and make tender the hearts of obstinate, foolish young men. A pretty picture while it lasted, no doubt about it, one easily remembered but never found again. Stuck hanging lonesome in the halls of someone else's fantasy. Funny thing memory, always kicking back when you least expect it - always cutting out when you need it most. 

Just as my memories have floated effortlessly away, so too, have you. Another star to dance along the horizon and taunt certainty to a man whose forgotten all but the pain and process of lashing a whip. What cruelty there is in the hearts of man, said the man whose cruelty had only just bled from his final wound. Born to pass judgement against those better than he, born to bring judgement against himself for those worse. The edifice, although a pretty stanza, only seemed to momentarily fool the poets and laureates. For when pence came to pound the stock had thinned its moral coat to a meager shell, protecting itself and no one else. And I, the spectre of a better man I once knew the memory of - came to lay my heart to bare only to be met with pity and the apathy of acknowledgement. Et tu, Brutus? 

Et tu, child? You think your mortal sins such a rot? And what of your carnal? A fool comes to Verona to lay his heart to bare, and leaves knowing love had done him no service but to wheep at the feet of another. Too wise to be a king, yet to stupid to be a fool - the romantic in you knows the tapestry is yet to be woven until the bodies of the fallen have found a home amongst the flowers and fern. Perhaps there is no, and you. 

No dear, a goodbye simply won't do much. Least of all say the words I wished myself capable of saying. Least of all for the memory of the man I wished I had been. Least of all for the parting of true ignorance and true beauty. Too simple the words are to speak and yet so harsh and unearthly their tune. Perhaps the poison which once graced our lips has stained my sheets a most sickly green, counting the rain on someone else's pasture. And you, a Capulet until the very end.