Three Steps Backward
The intoxicating fragrance, the perfume that rises from your skin like dew in morning's sun may cloud my willingness to be sure, but it cannot cloud the judgment that makes me sure. I know he's been here, within these walls, beneath this skin, inside your blood. He is the doorman of your deep dreams, the colour on the canvas of your frenzied fancy, feverish fantasy. It was he who stood first within your heart, and, before he took his untimely leave, it was he who designed secret back doors therein.
Tempted by my mindless fascination, tethered by my fascistic mind, I became two: one half left your side, late one night, to hunt him down. One half waited, warily, within your arms.
My better half watched you, listening to your breathing leaving you with the solace and beauty of ripples moving through a shallow pool. My fingers disappeared into your hair, my lips whispered reassurances, my eyes scanned the room for traces of him, for some photograph or note or piece of clothing. My mind took three steps backward.
My worse half found your man. He hid his face from the world, but I needed only follow the scent of your skin. I hid in shadows, as was my wanton wont, but he, ever with the edge, did me one better: he was a shadow. I closed in on him, finally, my loud heavy feet betraying my presence, and shattering the moon in every awaiting puddle. I had been discovered, and he turned to confront me, not knowing who I was. I wished to call out in anger, commemorate his inevitable destruction with some last-stab taunt of defiance or denial. His name, however, stuck in my throat like mud, and muffled my cries to the useless sobs of impotence my emotions had only earned too well. His tall figure approached, staring through me, like he knew my back doors, like he had gleaned a piece of me while he was harvesting you.
My better half curled into you, exhaling loudly, trying to clutch onto whatever remained.
My worse half swung into him, hoping to knock the knave from his feet. If I couldn't speak, I'd let my strength speak for me. Choking on his name's cold black mud, I struck my blow as though I needed vengeance as badly as I needed oxygen. As though I needed redemption, justification, potency, honour, pride, love, fear, as if I meant to knock the world, his and yours and mine, down to my feet. As if I could make it bleed those things which I needed.
My fist swung, and so did I, landing abruptly and shattering the moon in another inky puddle. There was no man to swing at, only a shadow to loom over me.
Tempted by my mindless fascination, tethered by my fascistic mind, I became two: one half left your side, late one night, to hunt him down. One half waited, warily, within your arms.
My better half watched you, listening to your breathing leaving you with the solace and beauty of ripples moving through a shallow pool. My fingers disappeared into your hair, my lips whispered reassurances, my eyes scanned the room for traces of him, for some photograph or note or piece of clothing. My mind took three steps backward.
My worse half found your man. He hid his face from the world, but I needed only follow the scent of your skin. I hid in shadows, as was my wanton wont, but he, ever with the edge, did me one better: he was a shadow. I closed in on him, finally, my loud heavy feet betraying my presence, and shattering the moon in every awaiting puddle. I had been discovered, and he turned to confront me, not knowing who I was. I wished to call out in anger, commemorate his inevitable destruction with some last-stab taunt of defiance or denial. His name, however, stuck in my throat like mud, and muffled my cries to the useless sobs of impotence my emotions had only earned too well. His tall figure approached, staring through me, like he knew my back doors, like he had gleaned a piece of me while he was harvesting you.
My better half curled into you, exhaling loudly, trying to clutch onto whatever remained.
My worse half swung into him, hoping to knock the knave from his feet. If I couldn't speak, I'd let my strength speak for me. Choking on his name's cold black mud, I struck my blow as though I needed vengeance as badly as I needed oxygen. As though I needed redemption, justification, potency, honour, pride, love, fear, as if I meant to knock the world, his and yours and mine, down to my feet. As if I could make it bleed those things which I needed.
My fist swung, and so did I, landing abruptly and shattering the moon in another inky puddle. There was no man to swing at, only a shadow to loom over me.