Ivaana’s Muse

I have your soul: I fanned it with different wings in this journey alone.

As the years go by, it no longer hurts to say; being drawn to you, is how I am driven.

The pages of the diary, yellowed and frayed at the edges, prevent my heart, from being mine alone, and I write.

I am telling a story: on black keys and white keys. Tiny fires from the eyes of fireflies light up the dark room in which I am alive. Hanging on the V chord and setting up the cadence- I feel the chorus building inside me with a phosphoric blue intensity. There’s always been a song inside me, written upon the memoirs of the diaphanous wind…but when you nurtured the syllable seeds of all my dreams and desires and let me go, I became who I was meant to be.

I have looked for and found metaphors in landscape and snowflakes, October city lights and the sidewalk and listened to the trickle of light, till I became liquid. There is a sense of rootlessness in the unrehearsed words which darken and disappear as I write.

November memories return to ruffle summer leaves in this hot surreal afternoon: slipping, sliding into a visible silence.

The melted sun tastes good on my skin. I have a few moments of forever in my palm. I am born to fly and die in the truth of nothingness. Let me be. The sun is a great thief…it pockets my laughter, never to give it back, till I return here again. I keep vanishing in this pale blue distance scratching the fat humps of these lazy clouds to leave my signature behind. The wind is my music. My bones cry with unworded songs. Here a slow glide, there a hush, the birds are trying to hide between the half-steps of the winds’ invisible chords. Some of the clouds are herding together like wounded cattle now and I am beating my wings against time in celebration of the woman I am. This sky is like a window minus sill, panes or structured panes. It’s an aperture that sweeps me off my feet.

One season just once, like an airbrushed Lydian b7, breathing in, and breathing out: forever.



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