A pregnant pause, I have been told, lingers inside everybody’s breath. Well, to give birth to ourselves, without somber hover in the chest, or the blues, or the blank…..body parts of our emotions….
I have been meaning to write stories incessantly, but ink, bottled in my pupils, runs thick lately, blushed with its own transparency to, embrace freedom, overflowed from, the containers of my, bones.
And so, I look for paper in all images surrounding, but there’s never, ever, something in the middle….then, what is it that is around, how can surrounding come to be, come to me, and to become a good enough surface for my, rant. I shed to attempt to become my own paper, but, winds are strong, pieces of old skin, don’t make it. Not even to toward the wind. Also, a high rate of, bark falling from me in pieces, not wide enough for me to write in them unless, I, made my words of microscopic dimensions, but, my me-sense and its myopia, we need big words, big like swords…I could, make a collage with, these leaf-like pieces of old me, leaving; I will ask the stars for a chance to, elude to cohesion through their light, regardless of, delayed perception.
He had a guitar, he has, a guitar. I sat on the sounds and the strings; roads: I walked them carefully, to met his hands, and his voice resounded so loudly inside my skin, like akin shells that twirl defying gravity, and silence, time. I fell inside of love for he pulled light off of my hair with, his voice. I sat opening every crease in me; me tracing back the careful bracelets of hermetic nets around my mouth; well, me, undoing the signatures carefully crafted under the earth, to ensure the stitching of my, wounds, well, me, I, sat opening every crease in me, shouting my language, and it, coming out as a melody that flushed all flesh, from pre-occupation. Well. Me. Him. Boy, man, hour glass growing, always, growing, enough space always, as sand storms tattoo chaos on the solely way in which we can look at each others hands when we are being made love by music through our guitar.
But, mirrors are attachments of our own crafting and unless, reaching out, to penetrate it all, by pressing the pencil of intention against the surface, creating, what we want to see and simultaneously discovering what, is, by the act of carving interaction, reflection, revealing to, the mirror from inside.
And I didn’t dare to, I looked at the vague shapes in our eyes but I know, I knew this. And it made sense, to, make distance from.
Stale words, how many of them can parade through my hands and my brain, procession of dead but still keeping the warmth of having been. They are. Words. And here, fishing for that liminal warmth to, reach for, touch for, the doorknobs, and with not sight, because I want the world of beyond the skeleton of symbology.