Untitled it's not a riddle if you listen

Eta Carinae,
 
I want to remember.
 
If you listen, you can hear everything, arms raised to the sun, which extends fingers downward.
 
Her phantom draws a brushstroke of breath at the nape of my neck. She licks her thumb before folding a crease between then and after, subtly changing skins.
 
I feel you. My heart is awake. You never hid from me.
 
I would keep her close with a name, but a name cannot catch her.
 
Lennon knew genius is pain. I hurt for her, another of many I couldn't save. She suffered long before I came, carrying a bouquet of deaths.
 
A coal flame blazes in winter wheat, worth more in a desperate hour than spun gold. As we fritter away hours, it consumes us, it burns because we cannot release it. It burns because it can.
 
Lips open like spring buds, lush with fragrant rhyme. She is deceptively soft and searing as candlelight.
 
Sacrum cradles a hearth of mantras that reverberate and beckon. Her yielding tenderness a blazing beacon. Her unyielding silence a painted window.
 
Tied together, in tender, loving letters. I walk blindly, feeling along a trail of knots in silk scarves.
 
Cloud barges languidly launch on changing winds to slowly merge and crush the setting sun. Enormity of sky makes me dizzy, sometimes, like the first step down from a stair is caught in a moment of fear uncertainty, like stepping into nothing, but upside down and somehow, looking toward sky from the ground, it’s more like falling.
 
Solid, true, shadow folded at the foot of the last, fading light, my footsteps tread west on its coattails. I feel like the quiet, stronger, when you hold me.  
 
Your love is like echoes of motion in a stilled riverbed, touching stones that have long lain dormant.  
 
She is standing still behind the curtain, watching feet move across the floor.
 
She knows the house is burning and can only save what's important, she holds the book of memory, but forgets to smile. I want to help her remember.
 
My heart is strong and my mind is sharp. I will reach where others cannot. She smiles, sadly.
 
There is music in every part of you, dearest heart. Sighing in silence, soft, sibilant songs, waiting for you to awaken.
 
I woke from slumber of drowning, back into the world of bright pain and joy that darts away on dragonfly wings, clumsy and eager to depart, smashing into everything. I was a boy, with miles ahead.
 
And now, the last song occasionally carries me backwards on chords, to the fragile day. It lasted 208 hours, before breaking.
 
It is hard to distinguish myself, in the foundations of soot, when I am colored long as a shadow. She spelled abandon with O’s and then her resolution forked a tongue of lightning between us. She left a shadow of ash upon me when she immolated herself.
 
I am blue in the face, but free as a winter wind. I want to give of wisdom, but the march of irregular ants in a column is folly. Easily picked apart by dumb, blunt, giant digits.
 
I’m not really here, my friends. You’re not looking at me straight.
 
The map is not the territory.
 
I wanted to go home, I did go home.
 
Its better when I am home and more like me. You like the things I say. You laugh more.
 
Holding your hands is like placing my own over my heart. We meet during the final verse of the song, the stillness before the violence of the crescendo. Too early, too late, for the train, arriving, departing. A slow arrow pierces the dawn, which lays beside me in askance, in absence.
 
If I deserved to be punished, I was.
 
I was always alone. Never alone. The answer was the question.
 
The ancient sculptor drew mountains together upon its brow and tread west in memory. I follow in the valley of its footsteps. She falls upwards toward a sun with brighter wings, again. I want to help her forget.
 
And past that, the weight of worlds upon me and multiple dimensions of gravity. Fears I thumb wrestle. Hopes I hold aloft in open palms. I am love. I am yours.
 
There is a flower beside the bed. Eight legs upon the windowsill.
 
She holds too many seas to count.
 
Bees pour from my mouth. I can say nothing that doesn’t buzz and sting.
 
We can change shape, if we want.
 
I know it is hard. To hope.
 
What is and could be is music of the heart and the mind carries the melody. If you’ll dance with me, listen with your heart and your feet will follow, wordlessly.
 
It is enough.
 
Breathe from the belly, lungs warm, air cold, sacrum vibrates, mantra within, vibrates. Breathe out, speak the words, mantra all around, candlelight surrounds, she is all around me.
 
In her palace of distance, she is composed of dreams, explosions of light and warm sensations, swaddled in an enigma.
 
I can almost see.. curving, careful footsteps fall beneath small feet. There is still soot on her cheek and tiny burn scars on her fingers. Wind lifts her hair in tiny wisps, before she gathers and ties it back. Her little frowns which she twists into the corners of her mouth, ever so slightly.
 
It's going to rain. Somewhere. The thunder will sound in her stomach. I stir a fire within.
 
While the world may exert its force, the choice is ultimately yours.
 
It’s not a riddle if you listen. I sing keys and you carry locks. Six is nine, where you stand. I make sense, even if you don’t understand. She holds the shape that understands.
 
The pain of one man seems insignificant when held against the endless depths of feeling, of memory, of everything. There are seas within everyone.
 
Remembering hurts.
 
I want to forget.
 
Sincerely,
R Sculptoris
 
"If I never meet you in this life, let me feel the lack. A glance from your eyes, and my life will be yours.” James Jones, The Thin Red Line