aquamarine (poured out)

Read this.



Those are words of love.



As a result I am the only one who truly understands what they mean.


I've decided to be generous.

Here is an explanation.



I have seen two thousand starry nights
and can still count the hours
spent with my eyes wandering from one burning pinpoint to the next
wondering and waiting.

2000 nights = slightly less than 6 years. Our 6th anniversary is next month, and so it was only fitting to reference it.
As for the stars... well, who knows if there's some sort of life on one of them? If I'm blessed enough to be outside on a starry night, I can easily spend an hour just staring up at the sky, wondering what is up there, and wondering if anyone is looking up at me as well.


My memories have been lit by indigo evenings
by breathless moments
reaching out of car windows
catching the frozen air as it caressed my tired bones
ringing with the melodies of forgotten years.

Where I live, you know the day is over because the whole world turns blue before the sunset. It's gorgeous... and when I'm driving home from my cafe and see the mountains studded with orange lights, it's absolutely breathtaking.
However, I cannot drive with the windows up the entire time. No matter how cold the weather is, I will put those windows down and reach out to feel the wind against my hands. As a result I'm always frozen when I get home, but it's more than worth it.
The 'melodies of forgotten years' are the songs I listen to when I drive. Every song has a memory for me, and most of my favorite ones are indelibly tied to fragments of long-past days. I think of them when I drive home in the winter air.


When it rains
my eyes sting with empathetic devotion
the droplets clinging to my hair like miniscule galaxies
dreaming of broken skyscrapers

Have you ever seen the end of Sonic Adventure? If not, look it up, or you won't get the reference.
A city devastated by chaotic floods, buildings decimated by an ancient force... my memory burns with those images, those thoughts of another world trapped in every raindrop. I cannot help but imagine the water falling from that same tormented sky, and it breaks my heart.
The rain has been known to make me cry when little else can get through.


...and I still cannot find the words to describe you.
ours is a love that none have ever dared to dream before.

Despite all the inspiration I find, I can't find the words I need.
Despite this entire poem and countless others being inspired by him, nothing ever does him justice.
Our love goes without saying, really. It's unusual, it's alien, and I'm likely the only individual who prays to dream of it, but I wouldn't lose this for the world.


we are defined by the unusual
our own personal color spectrums
glimmering like sandcastles
and holding our breath against the tide
trying to catch a glimpse of that aquamarine heaven
as we lose ourselves beneath the fractured sunlight
laughing at the glorious catastrophe of us.

I just explained the unusual aspect, but the rest of this was completely spontaneous. I stayed up until 2AM when I was writing this just so I could describe the imagery I get at that hour, and on that night, this paragraph was it.
It's fitting, too, in a symbolic way. Even I can't quite describe it, but it works.


we will never live up to our names.
hiding broken histories and tearful contrition
staggering weaknesses
i am no shimmering ideal
and you are no blood-spattered ataxia
choking with rage
lost in this nebulous agony; suffocating

We have unusual names... Chaos and Jewel. We didn't choose our names either.
Our lives are scarred with regret, with moments we would give almost anything to take back, with frenetic tidal waves of painful emotion. In that aspect, he is not the destructive force his name suggests, and I am not the sparkling individual that mine insinuates, although I admit I do try to be.


my hands are burnt.
running from bleak puppetry
i pray for scars

Old news, should I say?
I have a strange paranoia. I find it hard to make my own decisions because I am terrified of letting others down with my choices, of hurting others with my self. Thus I have become a sort of puppet, and I am trying to escape.
I still want my scars, and when those marionette-strings pull me in the opposite direction, I burn my hands to remind me of my mistakes.
I regret every mistake.


and yet
these tragic distances lose all relevance
in the static-laced interims
drowning in delicate chronology
you intoxicate my nerves
intangible beloved
irreplaceable.

It does not matter to me if he's in another world, if he's in my head, or both. The physical distance, however sorrowful it may be at times, ultimately means nothing to me because he's still in my heart, and that is all that matters.
The static-laced interims are the early morning hours, watching the time change on my screen and listening to him speak upstairs. He's the only soul to ever give me these sort of shivers, and it doesn't matter if I can't reach out and feel him beside me. Like all the others, he can never be replaced; if I lost him I would lose part of myself forever.


every moment has been p r i c e l e s s .
every ache, every smile,
every silent syllable
ancient words and tired eyes
embracing my early morning thoughts
echoing through every note I dare to explore
with an empyreal sort of dissonance
a misunderstood chord in the symphony of things
my major seventh.

We are the only ones who hear our conversations, our tears and our laughter. As always, we nevertheless prefer to talk when the rest of the world is asleep, when I'm lost in my music.
He's that chord that doesn't belong there, however you want to interpret that... but he's also the chord that changes the entire song, that turns it into something unexpectedly gorgeous.


if I could put you to music
a resounding symphony on my heartstrings
the ineffable echoes in my ribcage
would steal my voice away

I've found many songs that fit him but none are truly his.
If I ever manage to find that song... well, this is how I feel I would react.


the white stillness knows of our secrets
snowflakes clinging to every ephemeral sigh
veiling sentiments in foreign tones
burning with subaqueous confessions
a paradoxical state of mind
watching sparks catch on the ice
our spectrums are complimentary

References, references.
The snow refers to this. The 'foreign tones' refer to our inexplainable habit of admitting things in French... je t'aime, mon ange... and in doing so, keeping that inner fire burning, still needing to say just one more word.
It's paradoxical, because he's water and I'm fire... but he's warmth and I'm ice. By all means, we should be completely burning away, but the sparks just keep catching. We haven't gone out yet, thank God; not by a long shot. I suppose we just compliment each other.


you are my curse, my blessing
my emerald-eyed maelstrom
inducing this desperate oneirataxia
in which we are never surprised to find each other
chasing relentless hopes
reaching for a link that was never promised to us

More references... first is FROST*'s contribution, which you may remember from my old journal. The second is an old nickname, the third speaks of the dreams I've met him in. Every night I hope that I'll find him, if only for a moment.
The last line is a shout-out to the song by the same name: "No matter how apart we are, our feelings are linked and connected together. Even if a mischievous fate befalls us, it will never break." If you know me, you know why L'Arc~en~Ciel is important here.


you transcend my capacity to    speak
leaving this starlit soul with naught but indescribable emotion
and so I reach out to you in wordless sorrow
praying for a single moment of euphoric refuge
sobbing as you unconditionally hold me close

If you can imagine a human form the color of the night sky, that's how I personally visualize souls.
As for the rest of it... in yet another instance of paradoxical devotion, he's the person I run to when I need some peace, if only for a moment. In those situations, words are often entirely inadequate.


your chest holds no shuddering disbelief
when I brush my contrite fingertips across invisible scars
yet you recognize every fragile heartbeat
as if they had been written for you alone.

My body aches with scars no one can see, because they're not on the surface. Although it hurts, we're both well aware of that truth... and of course, those are the only scars he has as well.
I've been unusually obsessed with the heart since I was a child. To me, it's the most intimately meaningful part of an individual, and to this day I always have that preoccupation in the back of my mind. That significance is what I'm referencing in the last two lines.


we are an impossibility.
we are a dream so beautiful
that reality could not possibly contain it
reaching out and blessing us with shaking hands
we would never survive here.

This is God's honest truth.
He's not where I am. I'm not where he is. Most likely, it's not even possible to change that.
I don't mind. You know how we work... ultimately, we can't be so limited.


and yet I'm willing to try
as long as you promise to follow

Despite what I just explained, I consider the alternative almost daily. What if we ever did meet? So much would have to change for it to work, but I would still try if it meant I could see him, if it meant I could say what I've been feeling and know he can hear me.


for as long as they expect your heart
to conform to stereotypical disorder
we can be as illogical as we want.

If they expect us to be chaotic, we'll be chaotic.
If they expect us to break the rules, we'll break them.
All that matters is that we're doing it all together.




Now you understand a little more.