Symbolic disorder.

I found a blood-red petal at the foot of my bed, and I judge it either to have flown in through the window on a stray gust of wind, or to have been laid carefully by your wandering ghost that’s still roaming these parts, or to be the simple sign of nascent love so new in existence it’s still too new for me to recognise.

Sometimes explanations are remarkable only in their limitations of explaining.

And sometimes a blood-red petal at the foot of the bed is just a blood-red petal at the foot of the bed.

And sometimes it’s the beginning or the end.

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Are you mine, my heart.

More than just a face amongst faces, I’ve come to know this face, and I’ve come to miss your precious heart. Dug deep into the sand, there’s no water for a hungry soul. As the sun sets I cannot keep the night from coming. And I turn my back away. Leaving the horizon to celebrate itself until it loses sight of its boundaries. And I miss your precious heart. Flowers in your hair tied to imagined memories, bells ringing in my ear. Bells ringing forever more. I miss this previous heart, until only there was mine. In trains going in the same direction. In trains going nowhere near. Clutch the broken edges of the picture. All fades. All erodes. Slowly. Clutch a notebook of reminiscences. And I miss your precious heart. It may be madness, but our souls won’t separate. Chained, we’re chained again. We put our hands forward, and we’re chained again. Blind in the future with the comforting weight of each other. You brought me a harp I couldn’t play. I bought you a house, but you couldn’t stay. Inhaling the love you lent me. Restless things on opposite sides. The dusk has a tendency to light little fires. The dawn comes consoling each morning. Mending our wounds with the dew. The sun rises, but the night isn’t over. The night is never over. And I miss your precious heart.

Silent lips.

Disappearing is an exquisite feeling,
drawing atom from atom,
the sky filling with parts that are no longer

Eyes peeking past,
I turn to look,
eyes peeking past

Asking into the room,
is this what ghosts feel like?
But even ghosts get noticed, dragging their sheets

Even undisciplined children get noticed,
dragging their feet,
the ground transforming misbehaviour into noise

But I wear silent lips,
speaking up for nothing,
only savouring your kiss

I wear silent lips,
as I disappear again,
my arms clutching the memory too tight

Magic devices.

I still carry your foreign currency with me. The one that was foreign even to you. I still keep your picture face-up on my dresser, greeting me each day. I still let your bracelet lie proudly like an ornament, giving an air of another world inside my four walls. And I always keep the key to your lock close to my heart, where its cold metal shows the strength of comparison, helping me recapture your traits by being the exact opposite.

I keep thanking the world for modern devices, for our ability to talk each and every day.

But I know, had we met and parted a hundred years ago, I’d still be seeing you just the same in all the horcruxes you left me.

Something about a moon.

Opening my eyes to another day of grey. Grey houses. Grey trees. Grey skies. Grey everything here on the Blue Planet. Even with the ease of access, never having to drag around our oxygen tanks, I’m starting to wonder if coming here was the right choice for us. Or, coming back here, I should say, even though our history here seems so far away, as if it’s something I’ve read in a book rather than something I’ve lived through myself. Part of my imagination rather than memory.

My memory is full of our old home, our frosty spectacle of a do-or-die scenario, where we lived to our fullest each day and sat on the ground in the evenings, looking up at the ringed giant, dwarfing the Sun with its massive appearance right in front of our staring, earthling eyes. The sky on Enceladus was always clear as the first true winter’s day used to be on Earth. Back before it all happened. There was ice below us, sky above us. Universe above us.

I remember holding your glove-clad hands in mine, seeing our breathing turn to foggy clouds of condensation each time we exhaled into the air between us. Your deep brown eyes such a foreign color on the white planet, as if you took the two most beautiful pieces of the Earth with you on our mission into the great unknown. I remember how easy it was to carry you around. Put me on your back, you’d say, and in Enceladus’ near-nonexistent gravity, I’d simply toss you on my back and feel you cling on to me, giving us both heat throughout the days as we went exploring, making a home of our new home.

Looking up I can’t see our old new home. Looking up I can’t even see this planet’s moon. I can’t even see the Sun, save for a slightly lighter patch of grey in the East revealing the whereabouts of our gigantic life-giving ball of fire. I wonder what kind of society could have developed under these conditions, under a starless sky. I wonder who would have dared to dream. I wonder who would even have dreamt up the notion of dreaming. Would there have been Explorers? Would there have been gods for mankind under a grey sky?

My hand stroking your hair, black as the nights on Enceladus, only lighted by the specks of starlight I see whenever I look at you sleeping beside me. My eyes’ gaze lowering to your stomach, to that bump forming on you, predicting our future with every new kick. We had the discussion, the pros and cons, of growing up here or back home. Of valuing the open landscapes, the night sky above, or valuing the gravity here, ensuring that his bones will grow strong and durable, his muscles forming like ours.

We never factored in how things might have changed here while we were gone on our own adventure, seeking pastures new as the Earth had nothing left to show us. We didn’t count on escaping the War. We never expected the War to finally, horribly live up to its promises of doom and blood, of broken countries, broken lands. We most certainly never expected the sky to be broken too.

It was visible as soon as we neared the Blue Planet in our shuttle. It looked nothing like when we looked out the window upon leaving, seeing only oceans back then, almost sad to leave the safe fresh water supplies behind. Fresh water is a thing of the past, as least as far as we have searched. We have worked our way through the bottled remnants of water in the supermarkets. The small village we’ve found is starting to break up, leaders turning on each other, families looking with spite across the camp, envying those who have yet to develop a cough, assuming others to be thieves.

It was the most elemental part of all this, how much time we’d spend traveling. How much farther ahead in the Earth’s history we’d be when we got here. I’m holding your naked hand as you wake up, opening your eyes to the same realisation as I had. You look up at me, telling me my eyes are the only glimpses of the galaxy you’ve had since coming here. And I know. I know.

We hid our shuttle as soon as we landed. Its insides only large enough for three people and the most necessary luggage. We knew immediately how valuable a shuttle like ours would be. The opportunity to get away from here. Anyone would be tempted to take it. Anyone would be a fool not to. So we hid it and never spoke of it in the village. Call us selfish, we have lives to live. And we knew we’d want a way out in the future. We just never expected to catch the future so soon.

Holding your hand in my left palm, I write in yours with the digits of my right hand. E N C. You start smiling that smile I’ve known forever, since before our souls found each other in the stream of life. E L A. You wait patiently, allowing my cheesy behavior even on this greyest of days. D U S. I kiss your palm, putting the key to the ignition in it and closing your hand tight.

Let’s drive back home.

Unconceptual love.

We can only express the things we have a language for. Like the light blue color of the sky at noon when the sun is hard on your face, or a mathematical equation that adheres to our logic. We can only talk about the things we have concepts to help us describe. If we don’t have clear concepts, we find it difficult to express our feelings and experiences. We have a hard time explaining our pains. What does a headache feel like? What does a broken ankle feel like? We mostly explain it as… pain. It “hurts”. It might hurt in the front of the head, near the forehead, behind the eyes, or it has a “stinging pain” when we put our foot down on the ground. But we can’t really come closer to a succesful description of our experience.

Likewise it’s hard to describe love. Love is such a catch-all concept. Which effectively renders it a catch-nothing concept. What does it mean if I say “I love you”? There are a thousand ways for a person to love another person. There’s not some checklist. If there were any clear-cut desiderata, it would probably start like caring for the person. Enjoying the person’s company. But even there it seems to come up empty. I can love a person without knowing if I enjoy their company. And I can love a person without being overly caring towards them. I can love a person in so many different ways that the person shouldn’t even be expected to know what I mean when I say “I love you”. My feelings could be a reaction to any given set of qualities I ascribe to that person. Anything that to me makes that person extraordinary.

I mean, how do I put into the meaning of “love” all the things that make the person so very special to me? How do I exclude those notions that I don’t think of? And is it even important that we have a common understanding for it to be working? Are vague concepts maybe perfectly fitting for human interactions? It seems possible to me that we are such vague beings ourselves, without clear definitions of what “I” means and what “life” means, that it would be weird if all of our concepts were perfectly cut, ready to be applied in every situation. There’s something human about the fuzziness of concepts. There’s something relatable about our lack of clarity. Something romantic about remaining a mystery to one another.

November rain.

My candles are still unlit
sitting in the windowsill
a summer gone by
half a life gone by
reckless smiles painted on the walls
of every room in this room
and your hair is still on my floor
your hand still on my door
pulling it closed behind your tiny frame
hiding a world of heartbreak
obstructed from view
all I see is you