literature

Asphyxiated Harmonies

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Literature Text

Verses used to spin inside my head.  They would reverberate with lacerated tones, jaded emotions, and faded colors...endless fragments that I couldn't capture between my frail, fragile fingertips because no one wanted to hear them anyway.  

Even if I wanted to write them down.

Eclipsing endlessly inside, they would spiral together shadows of the future and regrets in a tapestry we all call "the past," forging unsettled harmonies.  Note by note.  Word by word.  Pitches...all marked their place on the treble staff and allowing others only to build upon the fractured foundation of splintered minor seconds and diminished minor chords that allowed themselves to decay into the empty space behind the keys of the piano.

I'm telling you this, because you've upset the rhythm in my head.  

You've upset the clear beats of 4/4, and turned it into a syncopated 15/8, in which I have no control over.  The rhythm upset my soul and my hands. My hands are beating incessantly on my desk, in an attempt to find some way to release the tritones slowly festering on the treble clef.  

I never gave you free reign upon what I said, felt or heard.  You just always took over, and still, the words flow from my gaping mouth like a faucet that could never be turned off.  It just keeps going, and here I am, spewing to you how I feel about today and tomorrow because closure is something that I took for granted.  The musical lovechild is growing and yearning to learn your name, and inside, he screams and tells me to release him down upon the pages; to let his heart spew out and splatter across the sinfully clean sheets in order to paint a nearly perfect elegy that would render me exhausted and maybe even useless.

This is a coronach for you...and in its own way, it's my way of telling you that I still love you, and there is so much that can still be said.  You'll never accept it though.  I still remember the melodies caught between the keys of A and C, and how you worked so hard just to play that single song that would later -unknown to you- become the soundtrack of my life.

Do you remember the way your fingers used to glide across the once dusty fret of my father's guitar?  How we used to meld together melodies and counter harmonies until dawn broke over the clouds?  The synchronization of our hearts simply wasn't there.  We realized this as we played a requiem together; your fingers spiraled us slowly into the depths of harmonic minor in D...while I struggled to find the missing structures in the chords you wove together so haphazardly.

We wrote, composed, and harmonized until our hearts were bonded together like the transient timbre of the inner voices in a choir.  We played off of each other's harmonies and inside, begged to perfect the minor 7th that we left dawdling beneath the fermata that we never saw.   

We never resolved that diminished 7 chord.
We never will.

The dirge for our final kiss was played the day your emotional baggage was burning.  Ribbons of flame slowly asphyxiated your heart...le nostre parole sono diventate più grave.1

You turned your head to me before you left and spoke words that still, to this day, are decomposing on the sheets of torn staff paper on the floor.

"Musica per la tristezza dei nostri cuori. Le melodie sono morti."2
1: Our words became more severe
2: Music for the sadness of our hearts. The melodies are dead.


I honestly don't know if this should be in the prose section, but it's there anyway. ._.

Been working on this since March.
This is...the 3rd revision I've done, and I think it's lovely enough to post on dA, so here it is.
© 2011 - 2024 Kupo9089
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