|
lobsterman
|
her hands are small.
but she's grasped the inevitable. walking with her is like sudden rain. there are moments when your cheek is suddenly wet and preparation becomes something you forgot to do. no longer a hope but a sin. if i had been given time to show anxiety i would have. but after we walked into my room her body was upon me. it was warm at every point, it opened up eyes i didn't know my body had. fingers seemed to reach from my torso, from my hips, and i felt exodus within me. there was the rise and fall of rome in my breathing. acropolis' built by tooth and claw ants of electricity that were neither hers nor mine. pauses felt like betrayal, the one hundred years war flashed across her teeth when her tongue swept past it in the extension of a second. her face was so real, so unaware how faceless love is. i felt the same rising, the same coldness, the same sudden warmth as i had before. there were birds singing in the hot rain, flowers shivering in the wind, daunted by the weight of the sky, all of them knew what i knew. i felt myself naming her face, returning to the forgotten and unfinished tasks of adam and eve, of all of the archetypal firsts. i again, despite myself found myself attempting something i could not bring myself to admit was not in my body or soul to do. my approximations were belated birthdays and bumbled sorrys. the smile we give to our friends, the lumps of sugar we take in our tea. these were our palaces, the unbelievable becomes believed, and the mundane stretches to take in the extraordinary. we look away when lightning flashes instinctively, and a part of us always cowers in even the most uniform drizzle.
love has no name. like the sudden rain. it is a wetness on our cheeks, which for a moment, could be rain could be teardrops, which for a moment is either. but we name in defense, we name like coming in and watching the patterns fall past our windows into the puddle's muddled reflections of our homes.
her small hands grasp the inevitable, and do not let go, but tighten.
unique, mundane, i match her sadness with my own tight grasp.
|
021113
|
