There we stood,
your arms wrapped around me
like scarves,
like clouds,
like braids.

There, suspended in that elusive
moment
between then/and/now,
beyond the mundane restraints of physics.

The wind haloed hair around my face,
snapping tentacles of mahogany in my eyes,
and in that moment,
I felt your lips
moving,
pressed to my hair,
murmuring...

Entwining;
a constant swaying dance
~myhair&yourwords~
suspended just for a
gasp-length
then gone,
whipped away by the breeze.


Another day,
I thought I heard their echo
passing nearby,
a wraith's foxtrot between wheat stalks.

Alone
in the wheatfield,
with ghost arms wrapped around me
like vines,
like ropes,
like chains.

I bent an ear to the sea-dance,
trying to hear those words.
It was mournful, it was jubilant, it was passionate
...and it was just indistinguishable.

My mind is just chaff on the wind now and It flies with the birds and carbon monoxide. As far as you could throw Me, I never landed, just kept bouncing off buildings, people and ideas. I learned to knit, to crochet, to dominate a hapless (but consenting) victim, to solve simple non-linear differential equations by hand, to ease Myself into situations in which I don't belong, in which I don't make sense, to take full advantage... to break a man's heart without pity, to fuck without love.

As you're talking to me, I know that the world I was living in has crashed down, and I see visions of Myself, ruthless and alone. I see Myself and I see others, and we are all there together but I am never there with them. I'm not afraid of the change itself, I'm scared because the vision stops there.

Give me your fucking life back, prick.

And why not?

I put you back in the fridge and you scream. You break all the eggs and leave them to gel and fester in the polenta I made to go with the ratatouille last night. I chain the door shut and let you chill for thirty minutes before baking. You don't seem to like that too much, neither, all yellow-hair thrashing, red with ketchup and blood drawn by broken apple juice bottles and purple from bruises and blueberries. You stink. You smell like sardines left in the sun for two days. I spent a fucking hour on that polenta. You give me the creeps, royal bee jelly running down your ugly litle face, don't even look at me. I said

Don't Look.

Good.

You seem afraid of me recently and it makes me smile sometimes for no reason. I see a blonde young man on the cover of a magazine in the checkout line. Strong, handsome, tan, clean; In the motherfucking supermarket, I broke down in a fit of laughter. My basket is full and spilling over with frozen blueberries. Tonight the color scheme is purple again. MAGENTA! That is your name tonight, so remember to come when I call you.