I first felt it in the
shower. Nostalgia. Creeping up my leg and resting on my shoulder. Bony fingers
caresses in that sickeningly sweet way nostalgia often does. It was the end of
September or the beginning of October... That night in the shower when I
remembered an old October, reading poetry at a wine factory; with sandwiches as
big as your face. And I remembered two tables. Friends and a girl. And it was
October. The sealing of fate. 2008. Days passed but not before
the memory of darkness and a knife. The surgery that changed me... And it was
October. October or go to Heaven. 2007. Time passed and so did my
expectations. Fluctuations in blood flow in the head causes heart to flutter
for another. Infatuation of the highest order. The beginning of tears and sighs
of"it's not fair" and the wandering
nature of soul; I'm done, turn me over. And it was October. All my queries I
vowed to shelve. 2012. And Sunday. When I threw
the scroll and claimed I was don…
Do people still hold hands? Does anyone even crave to be touched
any more? To casually brush up on fingers Like the wind herself wanted yours
and theirs to meet To find some excuse to touch In a way that doesn't find you paying
a fine for the things that we do in the bedroom... Or on carnival day. Do people still hold hands? Hands clasped tightly in prayer to a
god reflected in each other's eyes. Pray to me, he says Pray to me, she says Pray that fingers ache when eight hour
shifts separate us. Pray that they never find a keyboard
enough. Enough? ... Enough. The whispers of a dreamer is all that
remains A pen twirling between fingers that should be twirling strands... Twirling hands. Twirling. Wondering. Pondering if... if...
I placed the pillow over my chest...
In an attempt to drown out the noise...
I could hear the scream and mauling anger beating against my rib cage yet when it finally got to my throat... hollow. I took the pillow from my chest and stuffed it in my mouth; month old saline gripped my tongue yet when I opened my mouth... nothing. None. No scream. No mauling anger. No rage escaped. No evil fled. Instead, I got the nurse saying my pressure was high. A state I often pondered on.
I figured, "since you won't come up, I'll send something down..." To drown your arse. Four shots, five wines, three schnapps, one rum punch; the bottle not the glass. Still, BANG BANG BANG BANG... (one) BANG BANG BANG BANG... (two) BANG BANG BANG BANG (three) The pounding of racy heart on rib cage continued.
"Would you please shut up?!" I say to my chest. Deep breaths; in and out and in and out of this hellish mindset, or heartset. It won't come …
The first bang.
didn't realize it then, but the feeling I had upon seeing the first explosion of light; the first act of creation, that was love. It made me catch my breath. My ears rang out for HOURS! Maybe days. Even now, when I take my mind back there, to the first bang, I feel... No, I know that THAT was love. I didn't know it then. All I knew was that I had to touch it. I had to touch that light. I had to touch that sound. I had to touch what my eyes knew to be a miracle (this was BEFORE the word got overused and under-known). I felt love. Even if I'd be sucked into it; even if my head shattered on every passing 'streroid.... Even if.... Because at that moment, at the first bang, THERE was something magical. I pulled back or else my hand was pulled back. "Let the noise form first", the hero said. The one who made this.... Noise to begin with. So I waited and waited and eventually settled on this blue green rock, waiting for that noise to form. The h…
ever thought of getting a trial separation from God?” The
question was unexpected given the nature of the evening but I immediately knew
exactly where he was going with it. Nevertheless, I played along. Why?” “Maybe,
so you can see other people.” He
was starting to sound like the American TV drama we were watching. Drama is
relative; more like a soap opera. “That’ll
never work.” I said “Yes.
I forgot. Jesus is the only boy you could be in a long term relationship with. Irony
shot him a dirty look. It would have been more powerful if I had long flowing
locks. And was Farrah Fawcett. “What.
Don’t give me that ‘Satan-be-gone’ look. I’m serious.” I
stopped pouring the Pringles and turned to him proper. “HE
is not the problem. That’s not…” three pages of retort swam in my head with no
actual direction. “And that’s not irony okay that’s….” still, no actual
direction. I graduated top of my class in English Language and Lit; I can
debate the merits of everything; I live for philoso…