pulse.
i beat slowly open, closed, open, closed, catching on accidental grooves inside the mouth and mind of the vessel; it makes a hushed hiss that reverberates quicker than my movements and makes the silence around me twice as loud.
there is no heady wash of amber on the parking lot outside and all the folds of shadow in my sheets underscore the fact that something is wrong, and right, all at once. i am alone and it should be that way. i am alone and it is wrong.
the night before a panic seized my stomach and burned its way quietly up into my mouth and it was a while of chasing the tangled pathways between howard and dominique before my eyes finally shut and left me dreaming of nothing with imogen heap singing softly in my head toward morning. i woke tender and confused.
i had forgotten that morning is your time, and that not even in in your lack of corporeal existence are you deprived of the meaning of morning to the surface of my skin or the inside of my mouth, or any of the deeper hollows that still sometimes remember being filled. the only part of me that does not ache from lack of you now is the very place which aside from the heart that struggles in frantic whispered beats to maintain a semblance of working order was the place you changed, you filled, you shook the most: my cunt, of course, which (not entirely owing to your absence) i have done my best to obliterate from my consciousness and you will be pleased and devastated simultaneously to know how well i succeed in that endeavor, day to day. the only problem is that it grows harder come nightfall.
do you remember morning?
what a silly question to ask. as if you could forget the hours when we were more human than feeling or touch because all we were was feeling and touch-- as if, once it had happened, one could forget how to fly, for lack of a better cliche. as if the youniverse i enclosed myself in
with you, wrapped tight and tender in white sheets and sound, could be smashed to pieces by never opening its door again...but then i have. i have opened that door again and each time i touch its living knob that warms in my palm and push open that door the light that reaches out for me is blinding and it suffocates my sight until i pray for blindness, just for a little while, because i cannot bear
i cannot bear--
i cannot, i cannot stand to remember ever knowing such violent joy, or such beautiful despair.
i wish that what i knew in your arms were contained within the pages of a reference book so that i could set it on fire. at least then i would have the illusion that you were gone from me at last.
there is no heady wash of amber on the parking lot outside and all the folds of shadow in my sheets underscore the fact that something is wrong, and right, all at once. i am alone and it should be that way. i am alone and it is wrong.
the night before a panic seized my stomach and burned its way quietly up into my mouth and it was a while of chasing the tangled pathways between howard and dominique before my eyes finally shut and left me dreaming of nothing with imogen heap singing softly in my head toward morning. i woke tender and confused.
i had forgotten that morning is your time, and that not even in in your lack of corporeal existence are you deprived of the meaning of morning to the surface of my skin or the inside of my mouth, or any of the deeper hollows that still sometimes remember being filled. the only part of me that does not ache from lack of you now is the very place which aside from the heart that struggles in frantic whispered beats to maintain a semblance of working order was the place you changed, you filled, you shook the most: my cunt, of course, which (not entirely owing to your absence) i have done my best to obliterate from my consciousness and you will be pleased and devastated simultaneously to know how well i succeed in that endeavor, day to day. the only problem is that it grows harder come nightfall.
do you remember morning?
what a silly question to ask. as if you could forget the hours when we were more human than feeling or touch because all we were was feeling and touch-- as if, once it had happened, one could forget how to fly, for lack of a better cliche. as if the youniverse i enclosed myself in
with you, wrapped tight and tender in white sheets and sound, could be smashed to pieces by never opening its door again...but then i have. i have opened that door again and each time i touch its living knob that warms in my palm and push open that door the light that reaches out for me is blinding and it suffocates my sight until i pray for blindness, just for a little while, because i cannot bear
i cannot bear--
i cannot, i cannot stand to remember ever knowing such violent joy, or such beautiful despair.
i wish that what i knew in your arms were contained within the pages of a reference book so that i could set it on fire. at least then i would have the illusion that you were gone from me at last.