Another story for the year, catching my way up. There’s snow everywhere and it’s horrible and this week is strange and sort of horrible. So it goes.
Here’s a picture of Totoro and a new story.
Into the Air
She sleeps alone beneath the blanket. Open the window. Cool breeze but needed. Remember her tongue, the fun, the days she said words falling like rain to cover skin, your skin–my skin: ours. Those days connected. When I was inside and you surrounded. An egg, a yolk and shell: eternal. Feeling godlike, so full of you, so deep in you–love: those hands were mine. Those traces of you flutter yet through air, blown by winds wintry: snow will wash these streets by morning. Call it grace.
Still the words: breathe slow. Broken eyelids cannot hold. The tears collect but hold them back: my dreams were yours but not my tears.
My cheek to hers, lying in bed, I put the gun to my temple and we escape through the window, into the air, into the night, into the coming falling snow. These hands hold, find grip, blood receding from our ghost, from our lives, and we enter this night, this world colliding with celestial sensation, with evanescent existence: ghosting across sky.
You stop, we stop.
I feel new, you say and laughter rises, soars and we’re together in this sound, in this song we made after violence: after tears–laughter.
Do you remember, I say but she doesn’t care, takes my hand that slides through mine and into my chest: hot. fiery–light. Bursting from in me, your light, our merging into one fulminates against surrounding night. This skin erodes: permeable. I dive into you and we ignite, a star born from earth launching towards sky: past it.
And so: one. Finally. All the years, furies, broken words, rotted promises. Remember: I remember. I remember you. I longed for you, even when we were yet together. After all the heartaches, broken burnt bridges between us. A life together corroded: dim and worn–tattered. But now: beauty.
You and I: our bodies lost. Boundaries blurred: gone. We are one, at long last.
And I put the gun back in the drawer. Close the window. Stare at you, sleeping. And I remember and hope we get back there, to that brightness.