My eyes look down at a relic, in a drawer, a tightly closed drawer. It wasn’t really open all those years… just sort of ajar. Careless hands rifling through all the delicate pieces inside. I never bothered to stop them—observing them instead, coolly, from my distance, from the thousand mile stretch between my eyes and heart.
You know I won’t resist temptation; some days I think you count on it. “Don’t water it down,” is the constant admonishment to myself. Bury the truth in a metaphor—it’s only another form of silence.
Whispers seem slight, but they rend the dark.
After the drawer slams shut, an echo ripples through my mind-- a name. The same one I catch on the wind when I’m alone. The first of many gifts from my mother…
“It means beloved… and there isn’t anyone moreso…” the girl clenching my heart said to me. Later, she reached her mouth down and ever so daintily tore into its flesh. Chewy, delicious, refreshing… it tasted like tarragon pulsing on her tongue. How can she smile at me with my soul dripping down her cheeks like burning candle wax?
I miss the cataclysmic jolts of love rushing at me in morphing images of artistic mélange. Half of me craves to feel the depth of my passion erupting again; the other half remembers that it only leads to death by paper cuts.
Right now the scales sit in perfect balance. Breathlessly, I wait for the beautiful stranger who will come tip them.
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