//Another old piece. Began writing in December. Leisurely wrote it. Finished in February. Back when things were fucked up. I can't figure out how to get the style right on xanga but whatever.//




Say to yourself as I’ve said to myself again and again
That this irreversible sin and dangerous illusion could become palpable
In the sermon of an over-zealous priest-
While he wears each murder
Each disgusting sin under the robe covering his sleeves
That which we posses; an ability to harness the power of Sight
Touch
Taste
Sound
That all might come to be
Or simply extinguish what exactly we’ve brought to existence
In one simple wave of intolerable actions
In one night of fascination
we distinguish what only one who sees as I have seen/as you have seen/as he she they have seen
Is irrevocably beautiful

1.dangerous
2.unforgiving
3.disillusioned
4.narcotic

Or untouchable.

Distance-
I stretch each day to grasp what lies beyond this plain of existence that suffices as something unordinary yet undeniably inviting. Complimentary to the ideal smile is the way your lips curve into a smirk and hold such dainty flesh.
-speak of something one cannot see
feel
kiss
hear

And wonder if my hand is as soft as-
If my lips press as hard as-
If my spine arches like-
If my teeth feel like-
If my body moves like-

That dangerous
Unforgiving
Disillusioned
Narcotic
Untouchable
gap between my fingertips and that plain of existence
Where you tend to hold your hand out
To me and smirk

With that ideal smile;

…dwindling.




Contagious
through this antagonizing idea
of- perfection
and the idea that something so beautiful can become part of an existence
designed so dangerously to create such an unforgiving
-emotion.
all because of ones(my) disillusionment
taken upon those who find themselves lost in a narcotic sense of self
deems them untouchable.


But that’s only an opinion.


If that priest rolls up the ebony shell that lies so softly across his arms would he have the markings of an angel?
An angel of my stature or of yours
An angel fighting to hold on
Or an angel struggling to stand in one place; hand outstretched to someone willing to grasp, if not for the slight piece of space between them



And through that distance would each sense take a place next to you/me/him/her/them/us and find themselves caught in the fascination that I once stated to be beautiful.
As irresistible as a quiet storm
sigh
breath
glance
touch



My own or yours; I can’t distinguish which anymore
Through fluid movements, soft butterflies tapping against lips that echo faint words
across this-

This. This. This digestion of reality that neither of us can stand to look at
Yet we take part in

Are you mine?
Or...

Fight that backward phrase of 'I love you'
Because-

Do you mean it, or...
Or. Why is there always an or
Am I the only one, or...
Is this real, or...
Do I want to always be this scared, or...

and those irridecent blue orbs stare at me
and that soft raspy voice sings to me
and those gifted hands touch mine
but

there is that-or.

That space. That space between your outstretched hand and mine. That space that beckons me. That space that wants closure. That space that prevents me from leaving out that 'or' in every sentence.

The sky would part, rip, tear, and thread itself back together with satin string the color of ivory when that space was gone.

And my place beside you would become so clear.



But tell me, love-
you are my love, right?

That the space harbouring such emotion has been closed.

But tell me, baby-
you are my baby, right?

That my hand is as soft as- hers.
If my lips press as hard as- hers.
If my spine arches like- hers.
If my teeth feel like- hers.
If my body moves like- hers.

But I'm not her.
I will never be her.

and I don't know if you want me... or,
(there it is, that ellusive 'or')

her.

Because. I. Love. You.
I. Want. You.
I. Need. You.
I. Cherish. You.
I...

I just...

1. Love the way you hold me as if I'm weightless. Beyond this lucid field of silence and screaming. Past the realm of pain and desire. Toward the light in which we both drag ourselves; still you hold me.

2. Want your honesty. I want the words you string together, that spill from trembling lips. The words that have me hanging on to this fraying rope tied around my throat. Soft unconventional, unorthodoxed words which sense drives me to the point of my own fair destruction. As fair as your skin.

3. Need your presence. In all the sacrificing patterns, up, down, left, right, you continue to allure me. Forget the omnipresent past, look through the future that so slowly creeps in front of us as we tread quicksand to find it.

4. Cherish the way my ribs ache and conceal the pounding drum behind them as you find a way to take the oxygen and rip it from my lungs. Make me choke, make me gasp, and all the while, I smile. The wings of bats crashing in my abdomen, squirming and screaming to be let out. Concealed in such anguish and frustration.

Press your lips against mine.
Whisper your care.


But do you.

Defy your angel, yours or mine
the angel-
fighting

or.

the angel-
struggling


who are you. what are you.
Creature I've fought for.
who are you. what are you.
Love I've bled for.
who are. what are you.
Beauty I've fallen for.


Tell me, baby,
do you want this?

Spheres of quiet contemplation roll up to the ceiling and linger there for a moment. They are two buckets full of that blue syrup people use for snow-cones, wrapped in cashmere and locked behind a fish-tank. She's got that 'I don't give a fuck' look on her face, one eyebrow raised and her palm resting against her head. One leg bends and her foot drags across the beige carpet, fingertips trailing across the top of a pack of cigarettes resting between her collar bones. She's irritated and she's bored. Her finger moves from the pack of cigarettes to the scar below her jaw. I have my nose behind a book but she knows that I'm watching her. She turns on her side and the cigarettes slide to the floor, her hand moves to touch my calf and I close the book that I hadn't been reading for the past twenty minutes. Her hip is sharp and curves down to a small waist. Those quietly wandering eyes blink at me from the floor and she sighs.

"What?" I ask and she doesn't smile and she doesn't move.

"Come here."

I do. I don't bother with asking why or asking what's wrong, because there is probably nothing wrong. But I always ask any ways. My knees hit the ground and she stares at the carpet, moves the cigarettes and stretches. Her back arches and a quiet purr rumbles across a pretty mouth. Her toes curl and her knuckles pop, the cream skin that is usually confined underneath suffocating cotton is exposed and is soft against my hands. Her relaxed eyes crawl open, slowly pacing themselves to where I chose to lay. My arm is draped across her abdomen, low, where ink is trapped beneath layers and layers of flesh and where my fingers can gingerly feel along her hip. She's soft. Her fingernails slide along my cheek and she huffs, pulling my torso against hers. My nostrils flare when the tip of her nose brushes mine, and I study her face. There are small scars here and there, freckles splashed over the tops of her cheeks. Long lashes cradle glassy transparent orbs that hardly blink. It's one of those late mornings that make everything slow and drawn out. I was waiting for her to say something, but she didn't. Her lips rubbed against mine and she breathes, in and out, hands tangling in my hair.

"What is it?" I ask.

I play with the black strap hooked around her shoulder, sliding my finger underneath it as I laid my head down on her outstretched arm. Her lips twitch into something of a smile, crooked and full of wit. She's lean and small. Her legs curl up and she wraps herself around me, but I feel safe, and I know she does too.

"Go to sleep," she mews.

My face contorts and I roll my eyes.

"We just woke up, Jess," I whine. She doesn't like it when I whine and the grumble of persistence is all I get in return. Her arms lock tight around me. I squirm slightly, biting at her nose and cheeks. She squeezes her eyes shut and tucks her head against my chest. "Let's make coffee," I add quickly, stroking the back of her head. She hums and stretches again, rolling away from me. It takes a few seconds for her head to loll to the side and her eyes to open, but she felt my face again with her outstretched hand.

"Smoke?" her voice was sultry and she reached over me, lips grazing my shoulder as she grasped a lighter off the end table. Sometimes I don't think she hears me, but then again, I know she does. I nod. She lights one and I light one, we lay and stare at the ceiling in silence for a few. Her free hand finds my waist, mine is still wrapped around to the back of her head like it always is. Light gray spirals to the ceiling like feathers falling backwards and as the toxicity of each drag leaves our lips we wake up a little more. Her hand moves up my shirt to rest on my side, fingers moving in small hypnotizing circles.

"How about that coffee?" she says softly, moving her face closer to mine and securing me in her arms. I breathe and smile. "What about after that coffee?" I ask, eyes flicking up to hers.

She's quiet for a minute and then smirks, "You could marry me," she answers, letting her palm rest against my cheek. I smile. "I could do that..."