I tuck the rock back into my pocket and do not throw it into the lake. This one I save. I save knowing that I shouldn't; it is meant to get lost at the bottom with the others. It's smoothness settles, and it is unique. It is mine.
Wednesday, May 6, 2009
to make sentences
I see the future like a stained glass window with no design. The broken pieces of glass come to represent fragments of my life put together in a portrait making up an abstract whole. This whole means something. It's something different to everyone who looks at it: a past, a present a future. It's beautifully put together for some, horribly arranged for others. I feel the dryness on my fingers, but the moisture on my body. It's a reminder that I feel anything at all. The soothing sounds of drums and voices envelope me as I think about the smell of that perfume I apply to the backs of my legs for you. I dream of India, of Egypt. Of linen fabrics draped over windows keeping the sun out, and the cool in. Your eyes sparkle a blue frost over me, acting as the breeze through that fabric does, running through my hair, over my shoulders, lovingly across my face. You see the red in my cheeks. I know you see it because I see the red in yours. "I need you here, this night" in the desert heat.