I tried to imagine a careless life, a senic world where the sunsets are all breathtaking
Between fifteen minutes and thirty seconds [5:44:30] and fourteen minutes and twenty seconds [5:45:40] to six in the Friday morning, Deirdre I.O. Burke penned something she failed to remember knowing, something that she penned asleep, something notHer conjured from a splintered dream.
Shards of dress twisted over her clavicles and her shoulders, all black and smoothed, like the roots of an ancient oak turned to liquid. Her hair had been bunched into a French knot for the past decade, and it was only when he drove her away in that Cadillac that it let loose in the jetstream, a flutter of tentative chocolate from a poorly-made scalp.
Anyhow, it was clingy weather to be in a slinky gown that trailed out like beaded black, and she was too thin to begin with. Lucky M was stronger than he looked, or she might have turned to dust when her hands touched the metal gloss.
Ice triangles caught in her jaded jaded jade eyes of the cynic, jagged fragments of reflection touching naught. He took her hand like water (a vacuum, one particle indistinguishable from the next until broken) and stepped her over the earth. They were the first steps she had ever taken ever in her life.
His spatulate fingers splayed at the small of her back, tenuous and sure all at once; a gentle desperation lurking in that concentrated area between her vertebrae. Just as though he were a circus performer catching his charge; they were two trapeze artists, and if he hadn’t caught her in her stomach-dropped freefall she’d be spinning down down and broken in the water for elephants. A blackened and blued ballerina, broken but no [yes] seven years of bad luck.
But gentle still [please and thank you]? The ribs of china blue are brittle in there, thank you, and if you break them I'll have punctured lungs [fluttering ineffectually]. So brittle, and though you daren’t close your hands around me, you mustn’t allow me to fall, either. Whilst I bite and bleed and elicit your lifeblood, you’ve already given your intravenous drip to me. On which to subsist; it is all I need [never] Did you know your black hair is lighter (in shade of course, though perhaps in weight as well) than my soul? Chipped soul me, I ruffled your thick black hair and did you cry?
Or was that me?
Promise you won’t tell how I mashed my lips against yours with that embarrassing desperation, that ugly hunger. I think there were scratches; it was entirely greedy and uncontrolled-clumsy like a lusty tragedian meant it to be eloquent and sophisticated. And you pretended not to notice the dark circles under my eyes and around my heart, how kind! I think you were bleeding when I let go, and the salt on my face confused me.
Your taste is like heady bergamot and insubstantial meringue moonbeams and it makes me angry not to have tasted it before, and sad that I’ll never taste it again and haven't even yet.
Has your voice always been so deep? It mustn’t be that way anymore; that was no fault of mine, that kiss (?really), frankly I think you ought to take a little responsibility, really, as it never happened at all and I flew away on the glossy side of a raven’s wing before I even had the chance to step aboard the craft.
Later-morning edit, when Deirdre is less _____ : That never happened. You haven't--nothing. What are you talking about? Go to bed someday, maybe.
[/Private to self]
[Public]
Do you think our cerebral time stretches us into something that never happened? If not, then tell me what the point is of imagination when one cannot control it, nor distinguish its fantasies from what is Real. Thank God I can still keep my feet on the ground. I can do that much. Thank God it's only a dream. Wait, what?
Shards of dress twisted over her clavicles and her shoulders, all black and smoothed, like the roots of an ancient oak turned to liquid. Her hair had been bunched into a French knot for the past decade, and it was only when he drove her away in that Cadillac that it let loose in the jetstream, a flutter of tentative chocolate from a poorly-made scalp.
Anyhow, it was clingy weather to be in a slinky gown that trailed out like beaded black, and she was too thin to begin with. Lucky M was stronger than he looked, or she might have turned to dust when her hands touched the metal gloss.
Ice triangles caught in her jaded jaded jade eyes of the cynic, jagged fragments of reflection touching naught. He took her hand like water (a vacuum, one particle indistinguishable from the next until broken) and stepped her over the earth. They were the first steps she had ever taken ever in her life.
His spatulate fingers splayed at the small of her back, tenuous and sure all at once; a gentle desperation lurking in that concentrated area between her vertebrae. Just as though he were a circus performer catching his charge; they were two trapeze artists, and if he hadn’t caught her in her stomach-dropped freefall she’d be spinning down down and broken in the water for elephants. A blackened and blued ballerina, broken but no [yes] seven years of bad luck.
But gentle still [please and thank you]? The ribs of china blue are brittle in there, thank you, and if you break them I'll have punctured lungs [fluttering ineffectually]. So brittle, and though you daren’t close your hands around me, you mustn’t allow me to fall, either. Whilst I bite and bleed and elicit your lifeblood, you’ve already given your intravenous drip to me. On which to subsist; it is all I need [never] Did you know your black hair is lighter (in shade of course, though perhaps in weight as well) than my soul? Chipped soul me, I ruffled your thick black hair and did you cry?
Or was that me?
Promise you won’t tell how I mashed my lips against yours with that embarrassing desperation, that ugly hunger. I think there were scratches; it was entirely greedy and uncontrolled-clumsy like a lusty tragedian meant it to be eloquent and sophisticated. And you pretended not to notice the dark circles under my eyes and around my heart, how kind! I think you were bleeding when I let go, and the salt on my face confused me.
Your taste is like heady bergamot and insubstantial meringue moonbeams and it makes me angry not to have tasted it before, and sad that I’ll never taste it again and haven't even yet.
Has your voice always been so deep? It mustn’t be that way anymore; that was no fault of mine, that kiss (?really), frankly I think you ought to take a little responsibility, really, as it never happened at all and I flew away on the glossy side of a raven’s wing before I even had the chance to step aboard the craft.
Later-morning edit, when Deirdre is less _____ : That never happened. You haven't--nothing. What are you talking about? Go to bed someday, maybe.
[/Private to self]
[Public]
Do you think our cerebral time stretches us into something that never happened? If not, then tell me what the point is of imagination when one cannot control it, nor distinguish its fantasies from what is Real. Thank God I can still keep my feet on the ground. I can do that much. Thank God it's only a dream. Wait, what?