posted on Nov, 6 2006 @ 08:32 PM
..tangible, yet the epitome of the intangible of all the most. for it was that day long ago, in which i saw her, halo shining amidst her long silky
hair, as she spoke to me through those eyes, those stained glass mirages, those mirrors, the windows to her soul.
..thunder, rumbling through the window panes, thus my heart beats in tune, and the room smells of rancid tulips, thrice forgotten, as we sink amidst a
sea of burgundy sheets and plum pillows.
..my idealistic escapism, as it eludes me, i fear i have lost thee, but alas, she remains. amidst my newsweek subscriptions and unwashed coffee cups,
she remains, never to abandon the hope which is mine.
it was late. songs went out through the screen into the dark, where there were trolleys. and on the trolleys a peopled tired quiet. taxis sleeping
curbside coiled in dusk. ginger cat over the pilings. sore tin. old woman on a crate. there was something to the light of it, then. something feeble
and meandered. something sinister. there was always something needing or about to be needed. fulfilling as it may be, thus beginning, the rapture of
which i hath always known, unbenownst to all but myself and her, she takes my hand as we disappear into the night.
tea is so good in a glass because of the ice and the way i can't taste anything. i feel only the cold upon her lips. her putrid breath takes me
aback, though i love her still, with her black framed eyeglasses.
she a curling kind of not-smoke lazing from my teeth in a hymn of fire. she is
several kinds of fatal. pages will not flatter when the day is cold before it even listens. a song.
the hard truth in the flesh is a wincing hairpin darting pain of clearing ember.
scent of cedar. tripping painted. ruined ash.
i cannot imagine my life without her.
if she leaves me, if love is to betray and leave me naked and vulnerable, i must then succumb to the fate which is mine.
she will have denied me my intellectualism, my god, my raison d'etre, my grand sum of etre. never again would i dream of kissing my fleets of
children, their small toes, little legs flailing with glee. never would i lounge on the sofa, and read kafka in my boxer shorts.
i would succumb to wandering the streets like a drunken rimbaud, pissing on sewage drains and writing wailing letters to forgotten girlfriends whom i
may have loved-- really loved! --in spite of everything. never would i allow the soft vibrations of billie holiday tether me to a moment in a cafe,
with you, that girl, on the seventh day, on the quarter hour, in the year of the ox. never would i sip my pinot grigio, and wax rhapsodic on the
superfluity and triteness of dickensonian narrative.