A lowly beat to breathe by.
I find it all so distracting. The noise, the clatter, the clunk and circumstance of any given day.
Founded on a whim; this acid trip brain freeze. We met on a winter day; the wind was harsh, it blew hard. Frozen particles of acrid sanctimony filled my lungs. We met head on. Your eyes were dark, wintry.
A sentence spoken, a voice heard. Yours. Mine.
Through my hips I danced a tune I felt. Diligently, reminiscent of days yonder. I broke the box, I shimmied and shook, I poured out my heart with my ever moving legs. The curves ran rampant, your eyes followed.
Through my eyes I wrote a novel, I told the tale. You and
Through my hands I mimicked reality. I pushed and pulled, I clasped my fingers around the concept of your light weightedness. I balled into a fist, I punched, I scratched, I slapped. I pointed out the nonsense, the nonsensical mistake we made.
Through my ears I heard you speak, above a whisper, above a sliver of doubt. My ears betrayed me. I thought I heard –
I thought I heard another thing. A thing to make me smile.
You rarely see things you don't mean.
The night air, so cold, makes whisps of smoke betraying itself for shapes. It lies, it glistens with a sparkle that is false. For beneath the glitter is glue.
I have loved you and your pretense simultaneously. I've loved you both. I've loved you all.
With straw for hair and marbles for eyes, this doll takes form. This doll awakens. This plastic skin becomes porous. She waits in suspended motion.
You asked, can I recreate this body, this night, this incident. Incident, I replied. This is no incident. This was an accident. Accidental particles, floating on a breeze of sorts. Falling together, sticking tightly – dust gathers in groups, little circles, cliques of air. We all fight for breath together, we all brave the cold together. No, not an incident. An accident of metaphysics, you and I.