Does the river ever understand why it must create a lake in its own rush. Does it wonder what will come round the stones moved by its flow, or is it on its own it is immovable. The thread strummed feels like the river I say to you, the vibrations are what creates these twists and meanders between us. I still would like to let you know that I haven’t changed from Love in the slightest, just the same river as always. down and upon this lesson I follow — like roots breaking pebbles across time, next to the river that isn’t afraid to face time itself. I may go somewhere you may never go, I’ll be right here as you’ll change seasons. I could be a river that sweeps you away, the crickets and insects might dissect your sound — I’ll probably think you’d sound familiar again. Deposit all my cremated ash on the flow, I am swept with sorrow. I will never come back again, but I will stay in the same river you crossed by. Out of nowhere, going nowhere. I hear distant instruments — maybe that’s the wind playing tricks again, that I’m already long from those melodies. Wallowing in pain within myself in sorrow at the peak of tomorrow. I set myself up to die without you. Deposit all the traces of me in my grave, you may lay beside what a beating heart couldn’t save. Then again, I am cremated with the same thought of myself. If you ask me why I’ll do it, then I won’t have an answer. For what can a dead man do? Maybe something he’ll maybe regret. My current life isn’t that good — well, I might end up doing good to myself. My river will twist, it will bend my spine back in itself.
My river will meander, across the distance that I may end up in.
My river will separate, without a feeling it shouldn’t have felt.
My river will drown, it is the start of what the cycle is to begin.
My river will remember, it will tune out your voice with its crash.
My river will die with me, you will continue onward without water. I cannot safely say I will grow out again, the flowers near the bed will ask for rain — I will rain upon salt, chemicals that are natural to me. I’ll see to it that tomorrow isn’t guaranteed, honestly, I was happy to be the cause of this end. That you wouldn’t look back, and see me suffer without you. I will supply today’s greenery this time, my minerals of ash — my water from way up high. Today, it tightens — tomorrow, I begin to drop. It’s absolutely preposterous that I may say such promises.
My river will choke, asphyxiate in the love I really wanted.
My river will hang, though ashes will pass through it.
My river will take, a life that I may never bring myself to do.
My river will die, losing myself upon its drought and ground.
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Turn back, that’s the last you’ll see me feed the life out there. I lie about the obstruction of my body, that I am hurt by accident. But maybe that’s the point, you saw through me too late. I am lesser than the lake where you came from. Confined that maybe I couldn’t become one. I am the death of one body to be a new one. I am too outstretched to flow again, the ashes of myself are long gone too. I would trade my life for a night to be in this predicament of yours — that you may take refuge on my dead hand. Maybe hold it — a look of disappointment. It beat me to it, I am left with this answer — a wrong one. I’ll slip away like nothing ever happened, in all honesty. That I may lose myself all over again without a reason. This time, I’ll end it. The current will stop flowing, and if it spill does — let my blood flow and infect the drifted parts of myself.
My river will confess, mistakes that affected its crops.
My river will provide, a reason why it is useless in the first place.
Of course, I have no say in this. Long gone from yesterday — too far for tomorrow. Too brittle I say with every strike a stone can take for years on end. I am that I remember uselessness. The jagging edges that start to show between my ribs have taken a toll in this stream. Something about me that truly suffered the most — my hands, I grabbed onto the pen instead of the flower bed — I forgot I needed to save myself too, but I Love you, I’d wonder how my words went before I succumbed to the grueling remembrance of myself.
I am cremated.
I am the flowing river.
I am the flowers around myself.
I am the grave
I am the drought
I am the rain
In the end of me — was the thought of you.
