From: India
About me: About me? Well.. Recluse, dysphoric, morose, inane, insane, caffeine-addict, misread, ascetic, platitudinal, dreamer, volatile, scathing, auspicate, deviant, disparate, iridescent, chatoyant, irate, morbid, colors, canvas, creation, hue, saturation, redemption, vehement, profound, intense, abysm, aphoristic, bound? Creative, encumbered, blasphemous, extant, sentient, opiate? Absurd, moronic, loony, preposterous, harebrained? Plastic blue conversations, paradoxes, anomalies, threnodies, acousmas, delusions, illusions, soliloquies?
Friday, December 31, 2010,1:34 AM
Of collapsing fairs and closed Ferris wheels,
Of cotton candy and wet sand,
Of blind shadows and white-hot spotlights,
Of warring confessions, of neon streaks,
Of muddy horizons and violent skies,
Of translucent tendrils and childlike wonder,
Of aimless walks and meaningful glances,
Of rearview mirrors and cold, orange streets,
Of unfinished sentences...
Of twin thoughts...
Of me...
Of you.
Of cotton candy and wet sand,
Of blind shadows and white-hot spotlights,
Of warring confessions, of neon streaks,
Of muddy horizons and violent skies,
Of translucent tendrils and childlike wonder,
Of aimless walks and meaningful glances,
Of rearview mirrors and cold, orange streets,
Of unfinished sentences...
Of twin thoughts...
Of me...
Of you.
Our lips met like waves that crest and merge the whirl of storming seas. I felt that I was falling: free and falling at last from the love that had opened, lotus-layered, within me. And together we did fall the length of her black hair to the still-warm sand in the hollow of the sunken boat.
When our lips parted, stars rushed through that kiss into her sea-green eyes. An age of longing passed from those eyes into mine. An age of passion passed from my grey eyes into hers. All the hunger, all the fleshed and hope-starved craving, streamed from eye to eye: the moment we met; the laughing wit of Leopold's; the Standing Babas; the Village in the Sky; the cholera; the swarm of rats; the secrets that she'd whispered near exhausted sleep; the singing boat on the flood beneath the Gateway; the storm when we made love the first time; the joy and loneliness in Goa; and our love reflecting shadows into glass, on the last night before the war.
And there were no more words.
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