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By Ali Date: 2007 Dec 27 Comment on this Work [[2007.12.27.09.16.27935]] |
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seven letters lie, all written in longhand, in a script that does not resemble my own, and yet, it's mine. seven letters drawn of the same seven mile well, ink and soul resisting like oil and water, each at odds with their own peculiar reality, and grammatical inequities are a thing of least concern. seven letters peeled from the same reckless shadows, thrown across these parched and wayward moments, drowned in a cache of truths that are too chameleon to truly discern, but there is a blight at the center of each, a typhoid Mary with eyes that sparkle indefinably-- these seven letters written, re-written, almost sent, almost thrown away, almost this and that. seven letters stripped and reworked, but still devastatingly bare. seven letters born of the same single desire, destined to clash, and defy the dead, dark breath that once lit some other starkly brilliant pages. seven letters lie as you once spoke my name, as I once spelled out your body in syllables, turned the tides of paragraphs with soft, then gripping fingers. Your breath was once an ellipsis, and with each new comma you'd quake, a brush of lips that collided with each aching word, as more than consonants and vowels became enjambed, entangled in the intense fibers of meaning, paused aloft, only to plunge deeper than all reason would suggest, but all the motion has stopped, the words exploded and suddenly still, an aftershock that yields only absence-- you're someone else's story now. |