013_Hidden Door

Do you know the words to make the hidden door open?

Hidden door


Do you know the words to make the hidden door open?

This door that was forged in the pulsing heart of a collapsing star.

Etched into the door it says “It only speaks the language of the broken.”
So I, knock twice. A hand creaks out asking for a toll; so, I take the coins from my eyes and place them in hand.
It flips them then demands something of substance. So, I dig in my chest, giving it the only thing, I have left. The only thing worth anything really, my heart with a spike in it.

Not to be so dramatic but the spike has her name etched into it.
Her who gave me the gift of love, her who stitched me back together only to leave me undone at the seams. I mean she was everything plus more I could ask for. With this, the door creaks open just a tiny bit more as if guilting me to greet it with the tale about the angel from my nightmares.

I tell it, how her glare could melt a man like chocolate in a warm hand.

How the magnetic polarity drew me to she. How her mind is picture perfect and balanced like well thought out chemistry. How every song I heard became about her. How her words felt wired by the Devine when she would explain the intricacies of grand design and right place, and right time led our fates to be intertwined but never really joined.

Our path was built like a double helix. Twisted around each other but never touching we couldn’t feel it. Hand in hand we walked a thin line of thread tied around a pair of scissors.

Now I stand wrapped in ruin, draped in the dream of distance she put between us.
While I struggled to find the color in anything that should mean something, my words lacked the substance of a subjective. I was bouncing back and forth trying to settle for a sedative that makes what’s a head of this feel effortless or to feel anything at all.

Melancholy tears fall from my eyes as I try to convey this conversation of debating on waiting for her till the world ends or flying into the sun so I don’t have to face another day.

I pull the shadow from behind the door and I tell it,
“Trying to capture lightning in a bottle was like loving her. I knew it was impossible, yet every time it rained I ran outside with a metal flask, chasing silver streaked clouds trying to recapture moving moments from my memories.”
“Somewhere in the middle I fell for her and got lost six feet, at least I retained my sense of self when I wanted to lose myself in her.”
The shadow behind the door hugs and embraces me, consuming me.
I close my eyes and wake up with her cuddled up around me in a bed made of roses and smoke.