You are more high and I am mostly drinking. You are sitting half-naked on the floor, holding your guitar like it’s an injured bird. It isn’t a real song, but a melody suggesting that you are beyond all this life. A little less than half of me is rolling her eyes at the cliché, the rest is transfixed, without head.
It wasn’t how you looked, or the unformed song, it was the way you played it; as if I wasn’t there, sitting naked with careless hair, in wonderment on the floor. I had tried to gesture your attention; like many before, but the song had summoned you into a trance, where no one but you were permitted to go. When you looked up your eyes said I see you, but not completely, because this is not why we are here. The space between us could fit just one grey cat that felt more like a gigantic space creature.
This song makes me uncomfortable and sticky; raiding my mind for the beauty I could gift back. In times of hunting beauty, it scurries from the scene; like the cat, it cannot be trapped-in so narrowly.
I wish you were here, whilst looking at my reflection in your purple eyes.
Our betweenness starting to wallow-up, you are sure getting washed up, right in front of me. All speaking sounds would be so self-conscious now. The only words I want to speak are the unspeakable, but in today's language, it would come out all dead and left-sided.
The closest I could say it now is by laying your head on my thigh, looking out and above to a black sky in calm waters. Maybe just somewhere Up North, to take the ridiculousness out of it.
Like the time before, when you lay your head on my lap, all of my blood swam towards you. I got flustered, fighting it on an edge, and for me, it’s not easy.
You move across the room like a rare species, impossible to track, but I don’t care because I have released all that to the gods and cut all cords.
When you re-enact how they say you are, or how you think you should be, it sickens me.
Mostly you seem to talk when I'm not listening. When I’m watching our film of unspeakable unrealities that makes the area of our betweenness even more adrift in a dream; this is the direction of our particular magnet.
I knew there were others, more youthful, more beautiful, like the blond one, pretty in a universal token way, no one would disagree. There’s the rosy bouncy one, shaped in a way that was impossible to compare sides with. I know you don’t think it, but it can be like this, sometimes, for me too. There is him at home of course and the knowledgeable pretty one, who reminds me of how many lives I’ve still to learn. There is the older, safe bet, forever polite to the waiter. But these are all mere surfaces, devices to forget you because you were the one that introduced me before I entered our room.
Sometimes lying in bed alone, I feel closer to you than ever, a sense of oneness about what we’d created. A behind closed curtains aliveness with physical jolting spasms, far beyond human control, and as she really is.
I know to form this untouchable invulnerable identity is actually a sign of retreat from the world, borne of weakness, a sign of fear rather than strength.
Remember the time when we took the longest cab journey in the world? For once you wanted my attention firmly, you even demanded I stop talking to the driver. So I pattern-cut the stars in the old faded navy sky and made a shirt for you.
When we’re alone I know this is a lie, we imprisoned ourselves with our own tongues. Why don’t you tell me what I already know? I want proof, you strange fool, why are we pretending that this dance is enough? Or maybe it is for you? Why don’t you say? Instead, you like me, even more, when I am cruel. I have one of those at home, or maybe I’m just getting you all mixed up. He knows my body better than you, but there I am stuck in a glass chamber heating up. With him, there is less film and more theatre. With him, at home, there exists no interpreter, just a memorised running commentary with domestic foreplay.
Back there being exists in the speaking between us, not like here, where being speaks within us.
I want to be as wide as possible for you but the truth is I miss you more when you are here.
I am not daisy enough these days, getting by making men high by my daggers. I needed to adjust, without you and heal my sheltered heart that eventually I left lying around. I hope this is not how it is meant to be truly; I still often think of you when I cannot think of myself with nothing to show.