The Double Life of Véronique

The Double Life of Véronique ★★★★★

beds with baths full of linen, some parts covered, some parts exposed. scars exposed, the one on the finger. caressed in the blankets, stories revealed, bare like crescendo breasts. wanting to know everything. windchime waterdrops, alive, falling down the window panes. satin ballerina dancers, twirling in ocean pirouettes. sepia vinyl monoliths, ashtrays that are still smoking. crystal soprano chandelier songs, vocal chords dripping in honey. nighttime air breezing in past cellophane swathed pearl screens. lilting iridescent flutes, heartstrings wrapped around fingernails tracing music sheet notes. clinking, rumbling, clinching tracks of train, grasses and flowers and petals crushed by the wayside. by the countryside. floating birds in the sky. translucent ball held up to the aperture, to the overture, clear spirit unmasked and filled with upside down barns and buoyant stars. roofs of dust careening, mountains turned to valleys in only seconds. one foot in, one foot out, halfway in between this world and the next. souls explode open where there shouldn't be a flame. but fires are untameable, and oak log visions burn so quick. embers sparking left and right, cobblestone gargoyle dreams left unspoken. weaving in and out and in and out of ragged column screams. shouts ring out in the distance like the lighthouse through the fog, saving sailors from the siren mermaid fangs. the mists of ever-time circling on wheels of the unrest. camera clicks and shutter flicks on a bus that's going nowhere. crumpled leaves clattering in the dusk-filled sunlight. boots scattering through softly breathing streets. i love yous disguised as motorcycle sweet nothings disguised as eyelash sadness disguised as death embracing concertos. dirt thudding on the hardened wood of cold, thrown from rose petal hands. youth fountain lips pursed against bitter tasting melancholic grief. the loss of diamond ring eyes. velvet sparkling music box marionette shows disguised as coffee shop cafe recordings disguised as navy midnight phone calls of silence disguised as arabesque swing set swan dances, laced with the switch of autumn and winter tides. fainting skeleton blush-toned havoc lilipads. tinsel fairy wing violin compositions of old, cigarette trists and car horn beeps in moonlight urban pastures, patterns reflecting in the passageway. high heels clack-clack-clacking underneath walls of cemented puppeteer fantasies. orange blossom piccolo squeals of departure. novel pages flip past in shadow mystery staircase fights, flip past in say somethings and what's wrongs. flip past in sugar coated magic lies. you answer in hellos and in goodbyes and in dial tone hang ups. answer me. answer me. please, won't you answer me? if you won't answer me then i'm finished with the golden hour fragrances. is that what you want? would you prefer me in darkness? i'm shrouded in the hushed quietude between your here and my now. there's so much space in between us. the emptiness is harrowing. won't you fill it with something? with your sideways glances and shoelace pantomimes? i am free from the thing i want to be chained, sewn, attached to. listening to you in reverberating sonic cassette plays. i'll take it, if i can have even just a sliver of you, even just in sounds. what do you want with me? it's all mixed up, but i can still hear you. please.. just give me anything but the nothingness.

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