She sits there, visibly seized by familiarity's
protocol.
Her compliant part has no permission to know her
private thoughts. Wanting hands on her breasts, a squirming below. But she sees
herself in the mirror disguised behind detach and privy across her face. Yet her body reaches past the cover of a
psychological thriller as if it were a box of kleenex with pages to wipe away
the blood, sweat and slow cum. Her mind is metal bonded to metal while her
hands are away with her. She is touching herself in strange ways, strange
places that are not for her to know. She would still greet you face to face
like a feather to the wind of you. Murmur songs often escape from her lips as
if she were intimate with your soul. Yet her superficial conversation
over-rides. It leaves no record of motives. She gives off a
sheer symmetry of body as if her eyes had preceded yours to look at her that way. Yet her shadow reflects
darkened pits, scars, tight-lipped secrets, staring back and somehow estranged. She is not knowing the trial
of her mortal presence. And, I am part of that to her, crazed in commonness as
one lost soul, wandering in the haze of forward falling to finish each other's
sentences, to leave our differences in one collective plunge, through
all the un-named tragedy that can be laid upon the other, through an unsaid
reluctance to live on at all.
These smoldering struggles are to feed time's
voracious attention. They dump on each of us, a bucket full of live worms,
right onto the flat screen of the other's life, with unseen hands soothing yet
choking the other. Growing old in a reality pose, we are not these animals that
will die before you. But we are the spirits, who vacantly long themselves
begone, before you . . .
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