Only moons will ever know.

Well after that pathetic excuse of freewriting that claims to hide within it some sort of philosophical theorizing, and moreover, set forth some strange, over-analyzed, drawn out truth (that turned out to be nothing more than a lonely metaphor that crossed the path of the creative prowl of the high mind) I present to you all a gift. The channeling of negative to make the memories positive.

Only moons my lady, only moons,
will rest their eyes upon this wine
flowing through our naked minds,
and reach the soul of drenched desires
soaking in the restless night...

Scarlet Hunter stole the moon from him. And no matter how long he was under her watch, or how bright she burned the memory in the dark, humid, summer sky, he never brought himself to face her. It was a void in his life that didn’t need incessant reminding. How can someone face the ghost of a million possibilities that vanished like they were never even there? There are now just faint dreams that once upon a time colored his most fantastic slumbers. Of course that melancholic presence in the sky had it’s unforgettable moments, but that’s what made it so hard – facing the ghost of a dream that escaped into the mist.

Late. July.
"I could sit out here forever with you. Just us. No one watching us but that lonely face in the moon.”
And then her voice returns. Something about the way the woods scream through the night. There’s a mysterious aura within the peacefulness of the gentle breeze; but for him, this peacefulness was a painful silence that called to him in strange whispers riding on the wind. Her voice lingered in the humid night – settling right beside him in the chair where she once was so nervous and excited. Scarlet Hunter was a sister of the summer wind, and every time she kissed his cheek, he fell back into the deep reverie of what may have happened.

“What are promises anyway? Just words to bind one’s insecurities, right? Well, we don’t need any promises – all we need is that moon up there. He’ll remember the promise of tonight.”
And of all the little things the great emperor of the night set upon his eyes while traveling the earth, none other than the memory of Scarlet Hunter became more apparent in his gaze. It was a sick nostalgia; like living in the house where your mother died – the quiet room at the end of the hall that sits and gathers dust only to remind you of the sweetness of her life. That moon had been gathering dust for 6 years now. Because, as he slowly realized, life is lived to die, and love is made to break. No matter what any cheap diamond distributor or evangelical religious junkie tells you, nothing lasts forever.


To be continued at a later date, if deserving.