Tattoos of a Dead Tree

I could taste it so clearly—its sweet, savory flavor of longing and hope for what I call a memory but know is something more. It is refraction of the soul, a bent beam of light sent down from God upon the prism of I. And the light which bends off the prism of I points bright and true to a figure standing near but just barely out of reach. A ghost? No. I do not believe in ghosts. Nor demons. Nor zombies. Nor any form of Vampyr. But I believe in this savory taste.

And I believe in the sound, musical and bombastic—dare I say pleasantly cacophonous—which wails at me and tells me to follow. Yes, how resemblant this sound is to the famous arias of the likes of Giacomo Puccini’s Un Bel Dì, Vedremo or One Fine Day, We Will See from Madama Butterfly. Yes, “I with secure faith wait for him.” And I with all faith shall wait for my beloved of dreams I haven’t dreamt but only hope to dream.

As for the scent, the aroma, the floral, fluorescent, and so very fair bouquet of a darling Merlot, yes, my Rosemary Beau who I see in my past and my distant dreams, it gleams! But alas, I know this scent be gone when morrow comes. For just like that, he disappears.

But I knew his touch, yes, hard to forget his soft and silky, velvet nifty skin against my own. In all my memories, he seems so very close. And all my dreams, so very, very close. But all again I woke up on my Rayon bed and cried. Yes, weep and cry do I because I know he left so long ago. He left this world and sea and land; he left our mortal plane.

And so, I look into the frame to see his face anew.

But all I see is paper torn.

I’d never see again.