a sizzling of moths enflamed
prior to her mexican bender last week, jardel had herself a helluva serious internal fit and consequently proceeded to have some sort of belated revelation at my expense. i had hung up on her a bit too harshly that afternoon, before she left town, when she callously blurted out some scathing truth on the phone. she then mailed me a handwritten letter FAT with lugubrious threats and rank with implied ultimatums, the gist of which was designed to imperiously order me to either come back to her arms-open and teary-eyed or to kindly fuck-off and never call in so many words. so many words. it was written in a flowery cursive print, these words, so very smooth and neat and blue. i find it amusing and odd that she could just have the go-ahead and express the totality of her unsettled bitterness using such long lazy penstrokes, which seemed faint of ink, written on stacks, and with obvious consideration of previous drafts. i'm amused by the simplest of details. i imagine her blank eyes strained to the task. the lines, as they tilt forward, are feigned with business civility and intoned with the aplomb of practicality, tortured and terse like a towel heavy with the wetness of longing, and in this nervous wringing twist of confession, dripping the stiff hatred that recklessly lunges from the brink of solitude, only to be choked back by the pride of letters. it was ripped out of some sorry notebook and stuffed in an envelope without a return address. how will the mailbox know where it's going? she seems to find the inspiration to write me only when i have become estranged (thereby vile and inconsiderate) and when she has grown volatile, flushed with the courage of a few beers, it's scandalous. i stuffed that sour sheet with all the others and put on an extra pair of socks. it's cold as ice in my house most of the time, no thanks in part to letters like these. i love her, but my capacity for love is immense. it became inflated at the site of her first treachery and proliferated like the rapid growth of vines. now, it is everywhere, shooting, swarming verdantly toward the swirl of ecstatic tangling. the world is a girl i crush after and this is enough. i adore, for example, the heartbreakable one for her tired face so streaked of brilliant smiles, likened to the wondercraft of a child's beaming visage, colorful of character and darting fancy, and her strange palaver that blinks alert and assuages my roughness coquettishly. her love is not mine alone and i do not mind. life is a bustling port of deafening horns and departures. there are darling traits and quirks aplenty. there is another's buxomness, her coyly spanished Z accent and her reluctant yet blatant wanton expressed in poem. i burn occassionally for the East and the hopeless one whose kiss is a cigarette nimbus. there are the concentric sisters with the majestic aquiline noses fit for imperial campaigns, chariot victories, wreaths, and the secret charm that lurks behind their steely posture. a bare grin, one that is revealing and pointless. a stupid tattoo hovering in the right place with an endearing foolishness of youth. an erudite voice thundering in the north, whose calls i receive graciously, and she is all snow to me. a boy's haircut. a boy. one that is mindful of joke and expression, quick and savvy with such delivery that hammers like convicts with stone-picks; she puts into play those ticklish words that tremble with the rememberance of things you lost sight of and sweet. the body electric! and furthermore, a moonlit bath of fleeing souls. scents that convey, eyes that encircle, moans that provoke, lips that murder. the immediate obvious flaws don't deter me like certain banalities do, and in the end, i find myself unable to deny the beauty acknowledged; i am engulfed. the brush, the grace of the first mistaken touch that one hazards is the root of new suffering. worse is the ache of nothingness that sometimes follows.