All characters portrayed herein are real people from the real world. The events, however… well, you be the judge of that.
A snow-white half-moon rests above the church roof, signaling the coming of night on a summer’s day, and I lay, and I lay, in the grass watching your every twist and turn, sucking the last breaths of sunlit air, your skin several shades darker than when we left our bed on the other side of the tracks.
Recognizing your hair from some other life, my eyes become memory, and I’m paralyzed remembering how the white strands form around your neck. You sway. There’s music in front of you. And there’s you in front of me, not noticing me noticing you. And I’m my own self, falling for a good head of hair, falling, falling, falling. It’s a damned miracle I keep getting up to fall again.
His glasses have fascinated me for days now. Square, thick. The glass tainted, probably from smoking. The kind that gives the effect of a magnifying glass, his eyes immense behind the material. I suspect he is seeing something else, something more, so I choose to close my eyes; evening the playing field.
They’re in there. I just wish I knew what “in there” means. It’s sound, definitely. Sound. And it’s all around me. And it’s made by real people, I think. It’s like a conversation, if I speak the right words at the right time.
You say you’re full, that the dessert was over the top. I concur, and rest my head on your shoulder. Nothing more, nothing less. Certainly nothing less than my head resting on your shoulder. Following the movement of your breathing through your body. Slow, then not so slow. And I’m the only one who knows why.
I just lay in the ocean, floating, resting. Your stars above me. Even with the salt in my eyes, I keep them open and watching. Oh how often I keep them open, watching nothing. But how could I ever allow myself to miss a moment of you?
Stopped in my tracks as I walk by. A sudden feeling, not of being watched, but of watching someone from out the corner of my eye. Turn my head against the Earth’s rotation, ninety degrees and watching. The movement, the floating, the silent landing. A jump, like any jump, yet so unlike anything I have ever seen before. It was you, breathless and tall. I could feel my eyes turning into dust. And two strangers turning into dust. Turning into dust.
Each day I would pace the same streets at different hours, simultaneously waiting and acting my chance to be offered a chance by nature. Each day would hold hope, that this would be the day – THE day – where the promises of the Universe would ring true. The unity of atoms, granting a small cluster an encounter with another. I don’t recall where the fire started. Just that it did.
On being real: Regretting and forgetting, and making the same mistakes again. Like falling into your eyes.
The table in my apartment shivers and shakes with every small movement made on or around it. I’ve tried weighing it strategically with stacks of books in every corner. I’ve tried tightening the bolts. I’ve even contemplated strengthening its legs with uprights. I was so embarrassed having you over for dinner at my shaky table; how all my furniture has become metaphors for my unstable life. But how it all balanced itself; how I had nothing to fear; how your presence obliviates my perception of the world around you.
The first high school dance, a summer’s night, so many years ago. So far back, so far below. We talked and you disappeared. Oh Red, where’d you go that night? Three years later, and you take me home through a new summer’s day, through eden-like gardens, to sit behind you sitting at your piano, where you open my heart as the sky becomes my every dream materialized.
Innuendos. So many innuendos. We tried the bed. Now we lie on the floor.
She made a circle of tealights, heating the room one tiny flame at a time. Was it execution? Was it seduction? The ritual is blurred. I’m lying down, there’s no weight but the weight of the world. There’s no sight but the sight of this girl. And she’s breathing me in.
My poster says you keep me under your spell. It’s not lying. It’s not lying. Not like we are.