Listen to me as one listens to the rain, not attentive, not distracted, light footsteps, thin drizzle, water that is air, air that is time, The day is still leaving the night has yet to arrive, figurations of mist at the turn of the corner, figurations of time at the bend in this pause, listen to me as one listens to the rain, without listening, hear what I say with eyes open inward, asleep with all five senses awake, it’s raining, light footsteps, a murmur of syllables.
air and water, words with no weight: what we are and are, the days and years, this moment, weightless time and heavy sorrow, listen to me as one listens to the rain, wet asphalt is shining, steam rises and walks away, night unfolds and looks at me, you are you and your body of steam, you and your face of night, you and your hair, unhurried lightning, you cross the street and enter my forehead, footsteps of water across my eyes, listen to me as one listens to the rain,
The curves begin to melt, Its astounding we remember everything we touch. So your memory is a trace of fingertips, From the callous neck, to the sculpted collar bones, you are a like a hidden lake in a forgotten island, where I dip to forget myself, The curves extrapolate like rays of sunlight never knowing why, From the breasts to the fine arch of the back, Everything dissolves again and again, My hands aren’t wet with your touch? Are you really what they call as magic?
For my hands disappear within you, Tracing every tips without whispering to you, Touching everywhere without telling you? Making it a dream, with dreaming you, Do you feel it all, or should I be dissolving you? Not by touch, not by shyness But by a pool of shyness and leaving you? I never knew how to withdraw, so the dress is leaving you? Maniacal? Sensuous? Are you mad? All sound same. While your eyes teach you.
You sit in the garden swinging to and fro, a shining sun brilliant yellow with warmth brightly painted oranges in your hand or are they tangerines? I do not know for I was not invited to this winter feast.
You sit with the others, peals of laughter, seeds of conversations leak into my room somehow. The pulp of the oranges dripping from your lips as you discard the peels dulled by time turning bitter and dry.
Let them fall to the dirty ground uncared for and unnecessary. I forget their existence, the sun and the warmth.
I remember us, the pulp stained lips and a thirst for never missing such feasts, where your eyes inch this close to me. where the breath turns citrus in unison.
Last night, I sojourned in the warm fields of cherry blossom, letting my silence convolve with the voiceless dreams.
I cried in a language, I never heard before. The memory of my voice absconds for a few days. Leaving only regretful notes, of unending sabbaticals.
Nature never speaks, I have observed. It just pours a volume of voices from its belly, into a pot full of colors, to melt and coalesce for our eyes to fathom in silence.
So the next time, we lie on the bed, don’t speak, just observe all of my colors as I trace the aching fan dying out above.
Whisper to me then gently, if you wish, of how does the grey mix in the volumes of smiles bright? And yet never turns loud enough for us to tremble and dissolve in one another, painting our silence into this unspeakable color of love.