a
tale by
. . morning z e p h y r . .
i n t o y o u r s o u l
l i k e g l a s s
You're flipping through that old photo album again, gliding
your fingers over the moving faces with this longing look aflame in blue.
Blue. I hate blue, especially yours – a
perfect concoction of midnight and
cornflower. Sometimes, this horrible
feeling washes over and makes me want to take them right out from behind those
unfashionable, black spectacles and place them on my nightstand encased in
crystalline diamonds. At least then
you'd take a glance at me even if you don't know it, and I would be able to
stare into your eyes from dawn until dusk and dawn again.
Yet at times, this nagging, glimmering, shimmering, annoying (like your voice) prospect
haunts me and taunts me with images sweeter than carnival cotton candy. That's how I remind myself that I cannot
gouge you of the jewels snatched so graciously by the gods out from heaven. You know, I really will capitulate myself to
the swirls of chocolate syrup and snowy whip cream as long as you are the one
glossing them over my skin. Of course,
you don't want to do anything but glare at me with aversion.
Bastard.
My bastard.
My pretty bastard.
And why do you always resort to those stupid pictures? Do they bring you comfort? Reassurance? Or do you just feel like wallowing in your
own misery because you don't have what it takes to carry out real
self-mutilation? Staring at those
pathetic photos of your dead parents won't bring them back. And contrary to what they all say, crying
rivers and rivers won't either. So why
do you still bother to gaze at them each night as if it would destruct the
entire universe if you deviated from the ritual even once?
. . . Oh gods.
Look at me. Look at what horror you have
so naively done to me. Since when was I
so self-contradicting? Since you. Maybe I
should ask myself why I slumber each night only after watching you
clandestinely through a looking glass while you smile at a projection of your
parents. Is my reason the same as yours
when you perform your sacrament? No, it
couldn't be.
You're not dead. You're the boy who
lived, yet I can't reach out to you and hold you in my arms while inhaling your
smell even though you're alive, breathing, and so close to me. Even as I pass you in the corridors, I can't
wrap my arms around you and whisper "I love you." Never.
fin.
author's scribbles:
random inspiration that solidified out from the blue. though the movie could have
been accountable for some of it.
©Jennifer, Nov. 26, 2002