I turned back the pages,
And was left aghast
By the pain that was wrought
All over the pristine paper.
Was that blood mine?
That which dripped onto this page
Through the nib of my pen.
Or of those who are mine?
These words that scream
The hidden truths,
The loss, the agony.
Is this voice my own,
Or of those who are mine?
These histories,
They are not golden.
They glow with the red
Of hysteria, of Hell.
And my poor soul writhes
When I turn back the pages
Repeatedly, I churn my poor soul
In the black shadows
Of angst, of denial, of abuse.
The angst, the denial, the abuse
That even I know not -
Are mine
Or of those who are mine.
It's been forever since I went there. Our magical spot, where we would see those millions and billions of shining stars that tweak our destiny, here and there. This Valentine's Day, I decided to drive out there and gaze at those twinkling gems. More than that I hoped that one of those gems was you, still lighting up my life in that special way of yours.
And for the first time, as I stood there gazing up and trying to get a good connection set up with you, did I perfectly understand what you meant, each time you suddenly decided to drive all the way out here. Each and every time you parked in this safe haven of emptiness and looked at the abundant sky. Each and every time that you turned away from that lit up midnight miracle, to gaze into my eyes with that profound meaning in yours. I understand now, why you said each and every time we did this -
"It makes perfect sense to drive out of town, every once-in-a-while, to see the stars shining down upon us..."
