I'll warn you now: this is not romance.
These are not the words or cries of a star-crossed lover or a withered soul.
The blood in my veins is not the churning frenzy of adrenaline and obsession.
The shiver of my bones is not the quaking of mountains, or the rattle of time.
This
is not a eulogy for kings or a warsong for nations. These are not the
dreams of waking djinn, nor the schemes of sleeping ghouls.
My fingers do not reach the sky.
My tears do not crack the stars.
No, this is not romance.
These are the half-breaths and whisper-thoughts of groggy lips and wandering hands.
A lost memoir of twilight nothings and foggy apologies.
Mine is the sluggish ambers of memory, the quiet waters of recollection.
These are the oaths in the grass, the roots of my toes, the rhythm of my lungs.
These are the secrets buried in my skin.
This is the truth behind the sun.
The truth that a heart is no longer warm enough. That lips cannot speak the words.
That eyes cannot see the whole and all the oceans cannot hide that the gods are on bended knee and know: This is not romance.
