“Pretend you are playing me, Chet.”
She said, as the jazz genius made love.
May I write you? It is a feast.
I gather everything there is and everything there will be. Imagine entire worlds crashing down and trees shooting up from the ground and skies melting into gold and little sparkles of light exploding into stars around you. Imagine this. This is you, when I eat you.
I hold you tight. I hold you right. Imagine blankets of mornings and smells of Sundays. With sincere vigour, my tongue and fingers, attempt to slowly but surely describe what this moment means to us. We communicate non verbally, and we pick out every string from this storm, and we pull it with our teeth and lick it till it shines and we lay it gently on the paper.
Moist words. Our very own. We take what we can, as much as we can. But there is always so much more, but every dam has a brim. Every dam breaks. Like poetry, slow and heavy, wet and thirsty, you come. You hold me with an open hand and you hold me with your words. I eat you whole.
This is how I write. There is no other way. I know none.
Every other year, I attempt to describe what it takes to contain this massive whirl of colours and textures in a single snapshot as it wrecks havoc inside my mind and my body, my eyes go hazy and my fingers type and they type and they let it flow. I write when I love, I write when I do not.
Perhaps now I have forgotten what it takes to do the work and make love happen. But words flow out nonetheless, insanity allowed for a strange calmness, akin to a warm blanket below the freezing skies.
Insane, for I choose words, no music and no paints.
Loud and clear. Nude. Rude. Sheer. No veil. All yours.
I wake up to her
kisses melting into mornings.
Am I dangerous? The thought popped up during a routine introspection. Are my words dangerous to the self? Long earnest conversations diving deep within, ripples affecting those around me, eyes lost and seeking endlessly, the meaning, directed outwards but truly only peeking within.
A distinct calm, honest expressions and outrageous conversations only to hold tight the already taut string. What are my words, I have asked before, but perhaps never with this clarity. What are my words, it is not a question any more. Merely an understanding of the intimate strength they have over my mind. And over yours, as you read them as you deem fit.
Words. Not dangerous, perhaps, but potent.
“Words are all you have, don’t you?” She had winked at me. Mischievous, as always. And she asks that again, taking me back to the old days. Yes, my darling, my forever beloved, they are my refuge. My blatant gun. My method to share this space with you and with everyone else.
Would you allow me my words?
I seek only to disarm and disrobe.