There is no beginning. There is no end. There is only flesh. The soft pink outskirts of a facet of bones and foreign crevices. Crumbled into itself it works hard to sustain the whims of life in all of its glory. It is fragile, young, adorned in the latest niche. Reckless and easily broken with a blow or a word. The top of the center lays the heart. An enigma of passion. Like all muscles it pumps the very life force it feeds and like all mythical creatures it hides itself in false tongues and nodes. Yet, above all things, it is at its core true to its desires. For desire lasts forever. You can lock it up. You can cover it in lies and gore. You can paint it blue and call it another name. But year after year if you look back it’ll look a little older, a little cooler, a little worn for wear, but furthermore the same underneath. The fickle Noir in a read sheath.
We often think of desire as an emotion that comes and goes. Something that wishes for things in prose. The soft kiss of a hand or the admiration of many can be a blanket for which it lends its face. Two can desire love and end up getting swept up by the sea. Like the color red they can burn hot. Heart beats racing, hands tracing, bodies thumping to the movement of a beat. But just as easily the elements can take you places you’d never thought you’d go. And the last whisper at the edge of a window can be the last blow. She, just flesh, never thought she’d be there thinking on a dream. She was just a girl when she started. They called her by many names. Her hair often blew one way and swayed another. She’d often wash it hoping it would choose a direction but it hadn’t yet tamed. Her ears that were often covered were swayed too much by the voices around her. A yell would shake her bones. A compliment would move her. A whisper would break her. Sometimes on a sunny day she’d hope for a cure to this, but she’d look to it in those same voices. And they’d whisper.
One day she saw him at the end of a milkshake. He woke her from herself. He was fresh and full of life. Simple. Yet his feet remained firmly planted untethered by the world. He saw her in a kaleidoscope never quite looking in. It was kismet in its sick and twisted way. And that was the beginning of the boy and the girl. They never quite ran at the same time. It wasn’t meant to be. Too many questions unanswered- too many things done. But she often found herself going to sleep and falling deeper into the path that once was. In this dream it felt real. As if she were in a place she’d seen before walking the same old path. It was in a letterbox hurricane by the sea in a glow.
In a breath it blew by the sea. Looking at him she could feel his hot hands caress her back as the storm raged past them. A full ambiance of emotion- pain, sadness, love, unwanted devotion filling her heart with needles and pins. They etched painstakingly deep inside with the knowledge that she would never feel the same again. Her soul cried like a dream that beats in the rain. It was a sound from deep within the earth’s core itself. It shook and fluttered but he stayed near. It was wet on the edges of his neck, her hair, her dress. Drops from a simpler time, but nevermore than her eyes as she wept for the want of nothing and everything at the same time. But her mouth never opened. Just eyes bleeding into a soul by the ocean.
Did he remember by the water? The crashing of the waves upon them so hard that they might be swallowed up whole. The giving of a heart meekly heading its way into the tide. And while she awoke inside her room from a broken sort of existence she remembered in the dead of night feeling very naked to a whisper or a crow. That this he didn’t know. And she could see it now in the distance of the sky. Someday she’d find herself sitting by a window in a storm not nearly content. Though life would be happy she’d think of those waves and feel torn between two world’s again. She’d see the nape of his neck so close. He’d feel her hand on his cheek in his mind. And it would be as if they’d be suspended for a moment. Only if for a night. A coo in the molecules in-between. In real time he’d tend the weeds and the hither every day at half past two. Gently his hands caressed the grain. They were made for this. Creation. To mend the earth all in due time day by day with water below his ear as the summer buzzed hot. He’d smack The smacking of lips on a soda can and hands on hips as he scraped dry skin from his fingertips. He’d come to the flame of manhood threaded in sinew and song.
Every so often in the silence of sound he’d remember that place. When nothing was louder than the brush of wind against open earth. That sad lonely place where he tended the weeds at the edge of the world alone in his dreams. His only companions father sky and mother earth with whom he spoken to often. For they were always open. They simply listened. And he’d wonder when he’d ever feel safe like this again. Did the chase change him so thoroughly that his crown had fallen love? Empty was the world at times far away from those skies. He could see it as he spoke to the eager companion behind the smoke of the day. They all had such shallow stares as if molden from clay. He’d see their heals beaten raw by ambition. And he could feel it too. The clean shave becoming him as potention ridden with doubt laced his morning cream. The pedestal of society like a singed neck tie choking at the times. He’d feel himself without breath.
“Lay me down.” He’d roll a phrase.
Every once in awhile he’d wait up like a broken record thinking of her alone next to the warmth of another with far off thoughts of heat from a foreign place. Deep inside he’d feel it so real he could touch. Like an old drum beat in that same storm it’d pound in through his toes to the edge of his spine, the nape of the neck, against the blanket of a song. Sex. Intimacy incarnate. And for him it was a one sided squeeze at the end of earlier’s lime. But I’d still be ringing in his ears. Her held back tears. The way she bit her lip. The way she curled her hair as if something were ever wrong, but the lions heart roared strong. He’d feel it as if he could forget everything but her pink lips.
Two worlds away desire never lies to the heart. The storm does. For a moment in two worlds she’d feel like she was in that ocean by the beach. Her dreams floating like a little bubble toward the surface as she sunk down. Slowly they’d release from her belly out her mouth to the air above. Where they’d pop. But she couldn’t quite see the end of their journey from the bottom. The ocean floor below is like an old friend you can’t quite shake. Unwanted but comfortably familiar. It’d be embraced for a moment as she thought of a time when they were together in the wind. Oxygen slowly releasing would bring it back to the climax.
A simple memory. He’d look at her wide eyed hoping. She’d advert her brown hue coping. His leg would move forward. Step, two, three. Knocking on the ground as if purposely proving the point of hesitation. And they’d catch eyes to the sound. The world would spin around. She’d feel it. A film on the even grain of her constitution. It only happened when he was around. The nitty gritty dust ridden crevasses she couldn’t wash away with media or soap. Relation in all its Machiavellian precepts couldn’t keep skin tight over the catacombs of insecurity. Every inch, every pour, every dimple felt that much more pronounced. The scar beneath her chin from a fall when she was seven, the cut on her wrist inflicted at thirteen, the wrinkle from sad lonely nights waiting. Moments when she fell prey to naivety now naked before an equal being. The prince gazing at the world with a smile gaping wide grazing just beneath her chin.
Those wild eyes that once kept her captivated now held her captive. Wrists turned round making a clicking sound as if an uncomfortable shift of the scenery took place. He moved with his hand from his knee to the bed next to her. The urge to lean into the touch surged through her fingertips but the pulse of the sound held them back. Tones from a feeling indescribable slowly floating through tongues form behind tonsils to ears. Deep within the recesses of the belly creation through tune. Fingers floating toward the great big moon pointed up at the rarest of the rare. Highest into the air as the strands of hair float on. It was bigger than open eyes behind a lovers kiss. Something as sweet as raw skin grazing ever so slightly. Neither poetic or rare yet beautiful behind comprehension for its simplicity. For its meaning. The lexicon of human relations in depth and straight forward couldn’t even catch it. And neither could she.
In a house by the sea they conjure up these spaces. Soft unstable molecules grazing an open wound. How come you can feel the pulse in a single hand shake when you can hardly feel it in a word/ Even an adjective or a verb couldn’t get there quite like body language. A poor young writer takes his time hitting the bottom of a rhyme on his Remington 17. His creation from a mass conscious of hope and love. His only truth being that his heart is set to that very tapping of the key as it stamps in each letter. For sound is the perfect expression. The bane of a womb opening up from a bleeding heart by use of jilted lines curved, slanted, and obtuse. They need no explanation because they simply exist. Yet, that same writer knows that even the tapping sound doesn’t compare to the beat of the hand. The original language of the belly creation through tune. Fingers floating toward the great big moon pointed up at the rarest of the rare. Highest into the air as the strands of hair float on. It was bigger than open eyes behind a lovers kiss. Something as sweet as raw skin grazing ever so slightly. Neither poetic or rare yet beautiful behind comprehension for its simplicity. For its meaning. The lexicon of human relations in depth and straight forward couldn’t even catch it. And neither could she.
In a house by the sea they conjure up these spaces. Soft unstable molecules grazing an open wound. How come you can feel the pulse in a single hand shake when you can hardly feel it in a word/ Even an adjective or a verb couldn’t get there quite like body language. A poor young writer takes his time hitting the bottom of a rhyme on his Remington 17. His creation from a mass conscious of hope and love. His only truth being that his heart is set to that very tapping of the key as it stamps in each letter. For sound is the perfect expression. The bane of a womb opening up from a bleeding heart by use of jilted lines curved, slanted, and obtuse. They need no explanation because they simply exist. Yet, that same writer knows that even the tapping sound doesn’t compare to the beat of the hand. The original language.
The sum of what they were in one act. In motions he speaks to the world and then to her. Side by side one slightly bigger than the other. Lovingly his rough hands speak shaking her existence making the film thicken slightly. An emulsion of color black and blue shaking beneath fresh white skin. The sensation of his fingertips grazing on the surface little whispers of a man to a girl in flesh. Without knowing his atoms align with an impervious substance. The man firms his grip to the elasciticy of the girl he holds in one abstract gilt. She’d reply with words. They hit the air slowly like bubbles floating high above their heads. And as they’d pop as if from the ocean to the sky above pretense would return to the past tense of love. And the dream would be slowly removed to the present. As it usually does fading with the waking hours of the morning.
They’d return from their state of singularity. Split in two. Painful as it may be they’d exit through the proverbial door. That room would be left empty with stale hair. But many years in the future they’d look off in the distance by an open window during a storm and see. That there are rooms filled with heavy laughter. There are rooms filled with lies. There are rooms down the hall where we lock away our cries. There are rooms governed in remembrance with heavy fists and past chances. There are rooms filled to the brim with smoke where the only things that can be seen are dark glances in the night. And there are rooms filled with nothing at all. But then there are rooms shown often in our dreams that can seem very small. They can be off in a house by the sea or nowhere at all. There are times we’d think of these rooms and stand very tall ahead in grievance- sometimes he’d let out a whisper, her a cry. Whether we’d come or go is a choice in and of itself. But its chosen by the heart, the hand, and the head. And he’d think of this door painted bright red in the dead of night for in a moment desire was brought to light. And the storm as it swallowed them up. For there are times when a whisper is not enough. And regret runs like the wind in the eye of a hurricane. And in that eye there would be no beginning. There would be no end. There would simply be flesh.