There’s no certainty.
I’m waiting with my senses.
Breathing in the dark.
There’s always something about being the one at the waiting end. Oh these things we subject ourselves to. I did write about this before.
So, after all the waiting, what do you get in the end?
In the middle of a hot afternoon at the end of April, I am taking down notes about telling stories. The people inside the room begin to lose themselves in details of objects that hold the secrets of the character in the story. The story is about leaving.
The atmosphere around me changes. I begin to lose myself in a memory.
—————–
I remember the rain. Drops fall from the gray sky and shatter themselves on the hotel window. Shards of water pass in front me and get lost in the puddles below. I press my palm against the glass. I feel the city shudder. I pull the blanket tighter around me. The cloth is soft against my skin but offers little warmth. I trace a line from my lips to my neck, and lower, to where his kisses lead and end. My fingers feel like ice. I shiver and the city shivers with me.
Inside the room, music plays faintly. The soft melody is drowned out by the patter of rain running after each other on the surface of the city. There are all these sounds and yet it is as if he breathes into my ear. The air in the room is still. Cold. Below, people hidden beneath their umbrellas rush through the streets. They do not look up. They keep on running, running away from or running to something. They all have to be somewhere else other than where they already are.
I feel him asleep on the bed behind me, in a room I do not own. I look out the window at a view I will never see again. I turn around and look at the man sleeping on the bed. The sun rises in the rain. I turn around and continue to stare out the window, waiting for when the rain will end.
—————-
Yeah. So I did get lost. But that’s just that. I’m back taking down notes from the workshop now.
Maybe waiting for when the rain will come again.
Don’t say anything.
We’ll let the universe speak.
It knows our heartbeat.
I.
Stay up to keep up
and converse while the world sleeps.
Darling and discreet.
II.
Only the dawn knows.
Our silly little secret:
Promises unkept.
III.
Conversations end
when words no longer suffice.
Lips, tongues cross the lines.
Marked territory.
We are covered by our dirt.
Flying back to dust.
I.
A door is slammed shut.
Is it an act of courage
if you didn’t look back?
II.
Walk on to nowhere.
What’s there to be afraid of?
You’ve left. Move on. Go.
III.
The urge to move is
just as strong as the fear of
being left behind.
***Upon the end of April we find out: nothing ever truly disappears. Sound behaves as such: static, in the air, abuzz to those who strain to hear.
The door is shut.
(andhereigoagainwithonesentenceparagraphssupposedlymindfulofdeliberatesilence)
A note, halfway through, distorts the spill of sunset on the floor. The message, unread, is absolutely clear. The addressed has no other response. The words remain in the dark, in-between. The meaning slips through, silently, unseen.
Badass Delights 