Thursday, July 28, 2011

Amor Vincit Omnia

He kneels
At the grave of his lover
In his hand 
A single white rose

I like white roses
Why white?
Why not? Its beautiful
He thought, Not as beautiful as you

He stares serenely
But as a cool zephyr blows
He cannot hold back the harsh coughs
That wrack through his weak chest
And the blood that spill
Unwillingly from his lips

Scarlet stains
On sienna soil
Spread slowly
A river of crimson pain
The ache he can't hold back

The world is fading 
Before his dulling grey eyes
Shaking hands place
A blood stained rose
With such care on the ground

He can no longer see
Yet he whispers the words
Surely engraved there

Amor Vincit Omnia
Love Conquers All

And so he will meet 
His lover again
He lays down 
Finally at peace.


The words that come spilling out are not the words that he wants to say.

And yet he says them anyways, as he has nothing left to give her, except the words that are on his mind, the words that will last forever, and the words that he is currently not saying.

He is saying all the wrong things. He knows this, and yet he cannot stop. He cannot make them cease as they continue to plummet out of his mouth like an endless waterfall, crashing on to their conversation, onto an atmosphere that was already rocky and tense to begin with.

Her eyes are cold as ice, as she listens to his mess of words. They grow steadily darker, as his talk continues until there is no warmth left, only a freezing deliberation as she continues to hear him speak. She sits gracefully in her seat, her posture rigid, as he stands by the window, pacing back and forth, ranting and raving on. He cannot stop, and so she must listen. She is refined in her emotionless state of quiet attention. He does not need to look at her to realize that she is giving him her full concentration.

He comes to an end finally, after saying all that he doesn’t want to say, but rather feels that he must, and she stands abruptly from her seat.

Are you finished then?

He stares at her in utter bewilderment. For a moment, he had completely forgotten that she existed, that it was her that he was speaking to. He had been so bewitched by his own utterances that it had been as if he had been speaking to an empty room, and not at all a room with a person waiting patiently for him to finish.

I- Uh- Yes. Yes I am.

She looks back at him with her cold calculating gaze.

Good. For I am quite sick and tired of listening to you endless lies.

His shock is obvious as he hears her words.

They- I am not lying!

Really? Then why the hesitation? She turns away from him, back rigid. All you do is lie to me.


Enough. I am leaving.

He flinches at her tone before turning away with a decisive, stubborn tilt to his chin.

Fine. Leave then.

I will.

The door slams behind her, and belatedly, he wonders what is happening to the simplicity that they used to be. When there was nothing wrong, nothing difficult. Nothing quite so painful. When they didn’t have to try to be together, but just fit. Like two impossibly right puzzle pieces that somehow were made for each other, found and fit together. 


I don't know why I wrote this actually. I guess its just words.