Monday, 25 January 2010

This is Not Your Fiction

He brings the tune to a close, and her scent wafts in. Eleven months have passed since he last tasted her skin. Where is this smell, this sensation hiding, and how is it so close to me, he wonders.

He awoke in silent chambers, windows open, whispers chasing the morning light. He thought he saw her skirt skid around the corner, but he couldn't be sure. The night before, she had raised a finger to his lips. He kissed her shoulderblades, and waited for the rain to stop. When it refused, she held him till she fell asleep, and his body burst into flames. She doused the rage with glacial eyes.

He wonders how far she's gotten. He stands at the door, pretending to chase her. When she does not appear, he gives up.

He will search another day.


I know of the broken fantasies you chase
But would you not seek again
the fantasies you break?

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