Breathing could you come a little closer? slide that way you slide, so shy, wanting mouth open, try to suck in enough air to pacify the limits of lungs so useless in the dark mantle of these deeds, haunting your fingertips as they trace the contours of my lips, speaking too deaf silence closer my love, there will be no more breathing: quiet these vain protests echoing past the dying candle; nononononono, i don’t want this any more than you want the icy prongs of betrayal along the spine, harrowing soil to bear the fruit of your transgressions, elevated in your judas gaze; oh, darling, this heat is consuming the oxygen in the room of four, volatile hatred turned to lust; oh, woe are we caught in the movements that drag our tongues together, choking each other to the rhythm of two hearts bleeding into a single pool of glimmering vice.
I am very much infatuated with you. The way you look and the way you look at me. Your eyes give me the warmth I’ve been shivering for; but you don’t want me, you just like to examine. People can get away with a lot just by looking. We don’t touch physically, but blindly in your mind. You create the scenario’s and you play them out in your head- and they’re erotic, and they’re bold. And they’re so vivid that even I can see them. We sit across from each other revealing all our fantasies in an unspoken bond. Peculiar glimpses may give us away. They leave us at the altar, naked in sin.
I’m beginning to take my affair with words to a greater level. I call it love. These frail and frigid letters with their hollow hold until someone frolics around and gives them meaning. Depth. No more words with sunken voids. They really are devoted little creatures, aren’t they? They spark interest, anger, sadness, change, movement. They build castles and demolish land. But they never fail you. As sure as the dawn will come, they never fail you. Not like people do.
Today, as I’m giving my mom a hug, she says to me, “Why didn’t you stay little?” The moment she said that certain childhood memories flashed in my head. In that instant I felt the joy of being a kid again; no stress, no worries. Mama, I wish I would’ve stayed little, I really do.
The silence depressed me. It wasn’t the silence of silence. It was my own silence.
I knew perfectly well the cars were making a noise, and the people in them and behind the lit windows of the buildings were making a noise, and the river was making a noise, but I couldn’t hear a thing. The city hung in my window, flat as a poster, glittering and blinking, but it might just as well not have been there at all, for the good it did me.