In sultry mornings, when ghosts of the nights’ dreams recapitulate, I mourn the departure of the little waif lost in the wasteland of my heart.
I can still visualize him, cold and naked, shivering in the dark, and crying.
Better! He didn’t fit in. All rues aside, he didn’t fit in.
Sometimes we can come undone with whatever we did, sometimes we can’t. What say you love, which one of those times is it?
And when of questions, I ask too much? For me, yes. But I ask so. To cogitate of being with you, around you, or even in the imagination of your presence, Love.
And moments, made heavy with breaths, dissolved in thin air. I relive them to live. And how I live them, these images of your glistening skin, brushing against mine, and a mélange of desires? I tremble already, as I trembled, the beauty, love, passion. A collage of these memories when, for once, for once lunacy ruled over the rationale, have glued themselves to the fragments of my being. Do you know, Love, they obliterate mirrors, nullify the dissonance between me and my personage and let me be me, resurrected and naked in the warmth of your lap this time. And how could I mar them with a self-righteous frenzy—these memories that send tremors down my spirit in an orgasmic ecstasy? What an episode of rebirth unbeknownst to the flesh.
Talk to me, my inabilities, murmur in my ear; what to say, what to write, to make her hear, to make her understand? How to locate coherence, lucidity in this paroxysm of my restlessness, to establish the connection, a communication?
These words that I form mock my naiveté and I war with these, like that little child who is alone in the wilderness, cold and naked, and crying.