Two days and three nights, reason screams from the tops of its lungs, is not a sufficient amount of time to deem two individuals fell in love. Perhaps, I muse with the most logical sincerity, it was a simple bout of lust, just as one comes down with a bout of coughing seemingly out of nowhere. The cough exudes a miserable eternity, making you scorn yourself when you took for granted the days you walked about your silly normal life without feeling the combustion burning from your throat, traveling up your esophagus, only to spit in an unnatural force out of your mouth. That unforgiving day it begins, but as quickly as it came, it is gone, and once it is gone, it is completely forgotten until the next fickle bout tickles your throat.
A fire romps within the dwellings of a kept creature, I, a lost girl influenced by the masses, a timeless roaring rage to keep purity alive all in the name of doing what is right. Life seems long when the years trickle into a puddle, merging with otherness into sameness. It’s the acceptance of hiding which makes life normal. Sameness, hiding, long, acceptance.
I felt, I thought, I ceased. Time decayed after her.
The word lust is too sturdy and clear; whatever it was, it felt fragile and hazy in my bones and mind, as if for the past month I wandered lost in a foreign nightclub.
Emerson said in Nature, “A man is a God in ruins.”
I am a broken statue— Donatello’s muse project gone wrong— mind chipped and irreparable.
But I come back to her, if even just in memory, and then I am whole.
I awaited during the lazy morning for this isolation. While all the others padded the stone courtyard musing upon their fresh pressed orange juice and tales of the crinkly-faced sun villagers who adore old lawless Virgil, I paced in a total wreck of a mood to get out.
The asters and carnations blooming near the eating table angered me for their sweet beauty that lived just for the sake of living and nothing else. The sun, always the sun out and about, irritated me, as the pits of my white shirt were already soaked through. Trickling water from the gold fiori water spout pulled at my chest as the water made its way to an idle, content state in the lilypad pond. My breathing became aware of me. I couldn’t swallow the grapefruit topped with sugar. The orange juice tasted dull.
Mother what is it?
My tongue pressed the backs of the front teeth in detest of… mater, mētēr, madre, mother. They contemplated me as if I were crazy or sick. Well, perhaps I am both.
I part her name with my heart.
I stare at her star eyes beneath my eyelids.
I unhook the stiff parte superiore del costume da bagno