3D echo
"will i see you on saturday?" my poet asked me. he's throwing a freedom party for himself. he finally quit his job to, in his words "pursue a calling".
he used to call me his muse. the wind that blew inspiration into his ears, the tide that ripped against the jagged rocks, the foam that left him wanting.
he was my very own neruda- isolating my emotions in the cusp of his hands, away from my practicality. and then when his words were done with me, scatter my very essence into a void.
yet as i think of him, it is not him i see. the void in me grows. these hands remember the smoothness of another's skin, the landscape of another's body. face, shoulders, arms, belly, navel, legs stretched the length of my own.
cold water surrounds me. i float. i drift. strong arms pull me, wraps my feeble arms around his waist. "don't let me go."
my fingers run the length of his spine. i shiver, knowing exactly what to do and knowing exactly why not. he pulls me closer.
he is kissing me. nourishing me by this alternate reality. and yet i am weakened by the thought of our parting.
i am lost in the dark pools of his yearning. i wander aimlessly, pursuing a glimmer of false hope. stubborn. arms not feeble embrace him. feeling the smoothness of his skin, dying in his kiss.
my freedom, unlike yours, my dear poet, is drowning in an ocean - crashing against jagged cliffs, breaking and diminishing each time in washed out foam.
he used to call me his muse. the wind that blew inspiration into his ears, the tide that ripped against the jagged rocks, the foam that left him wanting.
he was my very own neruda- isolating my emotions in the cusp of his hands, away from my practicality. and then when his words were done with me, scatter my very essence into a void.
yet as i think of him, it is not him i see. the void in me grows. these hands remember the smoothness of another's skin, the landscape of another's body. face, shoulders, arms, belly, navel, legs stretched the length of my own.
cold water surrounds me. i float. i drift. strong arms pull me, wraps my feeble arms around his waist. "don't let me go."
my fingers run the length of his spine. i shiver, knowing exactly what to do and knowing exactly why not. he pulls me closer.
he is kissing me. nourishing me by this alternate reality. and yet i am weakened by the thought of our parting.
i am lost in the dark pools of his yearning. i wander aimlessly, pursuing a glimmer of false hope. stubborn. arms not feeble embrace him. feeling the smoothness of his skin, dying in his kiss.
my freedom, unlike yours, my dear poet, is drowning in an ocean - crashing against jagged cliffs, breaking and diminishing each time in washed out foam.
entrada de bismuth a las
8:02 p. m.
6 comentarios:
deeeeeetails, girl. i am not letting you off the hook when there is kissing and spine-touching involved.
trans> this was the story we always knew about bismuth, but which we never understood. (i shamelessly copy you).
The way I see it is he's your muse and you're the poet!
jesus surfing in the bahamas!!! this muse talk is making me feel hot! danm hot! sorry. i know. should've taken the meds this morning. heh.
Hmmm ... artist types ... so volatile.
I swear bismuth, if your muse were swimming in different waters, an opposing direction to the main currents, being an aimless mule-headed soulsearcher, you would be drowning in your vast ocean of life, I'd be in my submersible exploring the deep trenches.
But of course, there's a reason why the pressure is greatest the closer you fathom the sea bed.
blog, plebe. blog!!!
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