(no subject)
Sometimes, and I never would have imagined it when I was younger, my body holds inside of it a sleek motion, a sway of emotion, pulled in from a mix of future, past and present desire; I am left to close my eyes involuntarily, with slight delay. There has been a constant conversation between leaves and trees today; the wind kept close to the earth and agitated by the grey, grey, grey... and only the most occasional rain up to now. & I am sitting on a round table. I am next to the red building of books and death - there is some forgetting everyone needs to do to feel comfortable there- and also next to the strange steeple that is elevated on a pedestal, with tiny faces out of Dante's hell mouthing at me: --//-- : hidden behind a few, young-adult aged trees. Fresh. The right shadow. A cultured woman - smoking and reading - what is her capacity for passion? - short red hair, freckles, red earrings, oblique glance, oh and distracted phone.. the smell of her cigarette, she questions me too - and again a murmur, the wind enables the conversations again - and I never would have imagined it when I was younger - but the imprints of S's lips and her absence have left in my body a sleek motion, a sway...