Just waiting with my eyes closed, my own recollections fading in and out of modernist rejection toward all of which may eventually culminate into something glowing.
I wanted to sit on a plane and watch the rested, resting, restful resonance underneath me fade away with your reticence and my resistance. It might have been your reticence
and resistance, but I wasn't keeping track anymore.
I only could count the bruises on my neck, my skin holding in your breath more than your lungs, locating every molecule which could have interacted with your thoughts, and squeezing them until the squeals of my memories actually could be relived again.
Centigrade and the metric system, both intensely more useful in the management of my linkage institutions, were falling off the books, shivering the way you made me when you played me like a 3-year old piano in your living room. I haven't heard your music, but I felt your rhythm against the palpable grey-space, white-light, black-lit mutual breath that we shared a couple times.
You were alright.
You could have waited.
You managed to wrap your inconsistencies around my neck and lock the key beneath your bicycle 5,000 miles away.
Lucky moi.
Action was called about a year ago, but you were getting coffee and another cigarette, blatantly ignoring the way my form was molding into a bluish representation of a spirit I once attempted to tame. My lips are pressed up against your glass and you're watching the lights on the Christmas trees so that you can be the first person who watch the season start. It's a little ridiculous to assume that your mind, all tightly knit like the sweater that's going to cover the evidence of your momentary satisfaction, caressing rock-bottom, could ever meander into the monumental idea of the pyramids in Egypt. I'm Cleopatra and I've been ruined.
As the story goes, though [I know because I've watched the trailer forwards, backwards, left and right] these seconds are going to last only long enough to be documented in 1,001 Arabian Nights.
27,001 Nights of Me.
It'll be a someday, and you'll see it on the shelf by the children's section where you'll be forcing intelligence onto the spawn of your creation, and you'll laugh when you touch all the pages that your tongue carved into me. I'll cross your mind then, and you'll wonder how many more stories you could've worked into the novella if you'd given me the shot.
Truth be told, a whole book on the strategies of your kiss is a waste of pages.
Published and bound, it's being worked through the upper-crust, where they will discuss in Saturday's book club what the endless repetition of "perpetual" could mean underneath all of the period marks. They'll find it far too unintelligent to believe that I only said it in an attempt to fathom your endless ability to encompass me completely, until your presence alone was enough to pool in the center of my stomach, and pull noises out of my mouth that only the most skilled had ever reached before.
Your eagle eyes will watch me, the way that I watch you now, and God, You and Satan will pow-wow about the fate of my soul.
Send me a letter when you decide:
Brynna Hall
666 Salvation Lane
I'll be eagerly anticipating your response.
Don't keep me waiting.
