Insomniac : The Return

An older piece. I cannot explain why, but I felt strangely motivated to finally publish it.
Please enjoy.

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As I climb into the sky, as I watch the Earth pass beneath me, and with each mile I ascend, my heart falls further.
As I leave you, as I look on the city below, as it is engulfed by my tears, all I see are your eyes. I see the eyes that engulf my soul. I see the smile that lights my world.

The heartbeat of the metal beast that carries me is drowned by your unforgettable whispers. Its cries are drowned by your soft sleeping sighs. It's not its cold breath I feel, only yours, only your warm breaths against my face.
I don't feel this cold desk beneath my paper, I don't feel the paper beneath my pen, I only feel your warm skin. Only the caress of your soft cheek against my mine when I take you in my arms. Instead of feeling the pen locked in my grip, I only feel your fingers locked between mine. I don't even feel the stiff restraints, only your soft embrace.

One of the beast's prisoners fiddles with a diamond on her hand. I imagine that she dreams of her love, as I dream of mine. I look to her precious stone, and I see yours; your sapphires. I dream of your warm smile, that stare that melts my core. But I awake to feel ice again.

As the beast descends to leave me in my prison I look out, and hope to find it has gotten lost; I hope to find it has returned me to you. As I walk through my prison, the bustle of the city is drowned by your laughter ringing in my ears, daily I hear your voice, see your smile, feel your touch; But I awake to a nightmare.
Daily I wait, patiently I wait, for my return.

Portals.

Doors of second-hand stores, book stores, and record stores.

Lids of coffee bins, tea jars, and beer bottles.

Exit ramps, highways, and sky-ways.

Pages of books, lines of poetry, and notes of songs.

Eyes of sapphire, of emerald, and of amber.

The smell of ink, coffee, and the prairie.

Laughter of infants, tears of mothers, and smiles of lovers.

The bang of a drum, the pluck of a string, and the hammer of a piano.
Interlocked fingers, eyes, and lips.

The colour of the sky, the ocean, and the Milky Way from earth.

The babble of a brook, the rush of a river, and the crash waves.

Portals.

The scent of a life well-lived.

I hear the woeful, stubborn moan of a heavy door as it gives way to my entry, and an old brass bell greets me with a cheerful cry. I am embraced by the dust of many a by-gone era, and welcomed by the scent of a life well-lived.

I wander through cluttered, crowded hall-ways, gently brushing it's occupants as I walk. I pick one up and stare intently into his face. His name is Dickens. I caress his face, softly feeling every crack and wrinkle of age is his face. As I open his pages, he groans angrily at the abuse of his spine, and he breathes on me the breath of a life well-lived.

I descend worn stairs who whisper to me secrets of the past, secrets of other pilgrims searching to unlock history's mysteries. In a dank, dark room, I meet one whose name is Victor. He awakens from a deep slumber with a screech, and shakes the dust from his vocal cords. Slowly, he finds his song, and shares a voice from a life well-lived.

I find a forgotten singer, a marauder, a criminal. He tells me his name is Johnny. He breathes heavily as he prepares to sing, and turns in circles as he warms up. The grooves scarred in his skin reveal an age of experience, wonderful and terrible. He takes a final rasping breath, and sings me the song of a life well-lived.