i breathe lifetimes | vkook

1950

13 july .

dormant azalea,

      what would become of saturn without its rings? what would become of the stars without their obedience to ardor? what would become of the moon without its spouse, the sun? what would become of the days without the paradox of light and darkness? your assumptions ring acceptance, my love. all ideas which came alive─after these queries i mentioned─in the once impervious mist in your head, they're all very much correct. 

      if you wish to answer me with 'nothing', then yes, I agree. nothing is what these things would be. though, not to debate, i pertain to the thinking that the term which would most likely be suitable is 'incomplete'. . . maybe even forsaken. for these things would live in the shadows, sucking the air of a pernicious lack, constantly reflecting and weighing their sins. what woes did they miss to obtain? what filth failed to decorate their hands to cause karma's delay? despite humans being considerably flawed, no weight of such misfortunate should plague their likelihood of amity. 

      permit me to relent on my anguish. because, what makes up a man is merely his loved one. what would he be without them, then? nothing less than nothing. 

     your continued absence weakens the attachment of my joints. it is true; my limbs loosen at every grueling second without you. a radical deterring to my existence, hence, the symbol of my dependence to our connection. do you realize how my body abnormally recoils in a world that has subtracted you from it? you are the sovereign who rules over me─your monarchy, your vast domain, with your royal grace. i will undoubtedly diminish before your kin, or if you allow me, i would call this our kin. 

     take anything away from a man who loves; his wealth, his status, his most prized cigar. he can live by to see another day. throw him into the dungeon, accuse him of a felony which his eyes tell honestly that he did not commit it. murder his name, but never, never, murder the name of his lover. never, never capture the possessor of his heart. tis the only reason for his elation, the spectrum which viewers behold as they capture his gaze. the sweetness that drips from his lips, the zest like fresh citrus that glazes his voice, the refined physique he wears like a medal and claims to be his trophy. no more, not a smidgen of his beauty should remain or a cloud of spirit in his soul would float in the ramparts of his being. he will trudge onward as an acclaimed madman, a town jest, a widower who, as they would say, finds relief on comedic acts. 

     i then pray: my god, if you live within the whitewashed cosmos that towers in reality, save me, save my love, and bring us together. please, i beseech you, let death not come between us in the forthcoming. he was mine, not controlled by me, but our hearts were entwined, and i was his. still his. forever his, yet, he ceases to exist. 

      this burn surpasses those i've experienced in my pubescent stage of youth with fragile skin tearing from intense heat. as a man and as maturity courses in the single pituitary in me, i should no longer hold this raw harshness as my voice cracks in my laments. i do, my love, i so prominently do.

      but i feel, therefore i am. i think not, yet, i still am. you, my light, you cause my destruction. the most breathtaking and genuine and most massive defeat i face. . . it is you.

─zinnia