beached
"later," he says much wearily. stands up and bends down to kiss her forehead.
she places her hand on that spot beside her. that shallow impression he left on the sand. scoops a little and lets it pour, the fine white sand- some caught in the wind and floats away a few yards. with her palm, she smoothens the sugary powder. a beach crab gingerly walks past, snipet in the air.
she lies in wait for the moon. in her mind she sees the starfish she threw back to the sea. the orange suckers folding at the touch of her fingers, the blue and yellow pattern on its back reminding her of a watercolor experiment another lifetime ago.
the air is too humid. the sheets burn his skin but he is too deep asleep to bother.
she stands up. the high tide has reached her toes. rhum shoots up her brain. "fuck," she says bending her knee a little to keep balanced, a hand in the air- the flicker of the cigarette like a firefly lost in flight.
he dreams of her. he dreams a dragonfly has taken her away and he is running after them- an arm stretched out towards her. but she is smiling, her short curls caught in the wind.
she picks up a piece of dead coral and puts it in the pocket of her denim shorts. exhales a lungfull of nicotine-laced smoke, she looks back at his friends huddled around a bottle of rhum. his wingman rolls a piece and looks at her. she stares back briefly and shifted her gaze to the cottage. he must be asleep.
she places her hand on that spot beside her. that shallow impression he left on the sand. scoops a little and lets it pour, the fine white sand- some caught in the wind and floats away a few yards. with her palm, she smoothens the sugary powder. a beach crab gingerly walks past, snipet in the air.
she lies in wait for the moon. in her mind she sees the starfish she threw back to the sea. the orange suckers folding at the touch of her fingers, the blue and yellow pattern on its back reminding her of a watercolor experiment another lifetime ago.
the air is too humid. the sheets burn his skin but he is too deep asleep to bother.
she stands up. the high tide has reached her toes. rhum shoots up her brain. "fuck," she says bending her knee a little to keep balanced, a hand in the air- the flicker of the cigarette like a firefly lost in flight.
he dreams of her. he dreams a dragonfly has taken her away and he is running after them- an arm stretched out towards her. but she is smiling, her short curls caught in the wind.
she picks up a piece of dead coral and puts it in the pocket of her denim shorts. exhales a lungfull of nicotine-laced smoke, she looks back at his friends huddled around a bottle of rhum. his wingman rolls a piece and looks at her. she stares back briefly and shifted her gaze to the cottage. he must be asleep.
entrada de bismuth a las
4:34 p. m.
6 comentarios:
a delicately woven, enticing piece that tickles an erotic nerve and yet doesn't quite pinch it. deftly written and soooooooo very captivating. i don't know why but it reminds me of Gabriel Marquez. what more can i say? excellent.
and every time i try to pick it up
like falling sand,
as fast as i pick it up
it runs away through my clutching hands,
but there's nothing else i can really do,
there's nothing else i can really do,
there's nothing else
i can really do,
at all...
-- ah yes, robert smith is a genius
you are the only person i know who makes the experience of pain so heartbreakingly exquisite. i know these are more than words and that fiction imitates life, in your case, but know this...you are beautiful and if you have to write more of this, i will be here reading and waiting. a cup of coffee waits for you, too, dear. sit beside me.
this is beautiful
very.
you're good.
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