words and pictures

And there’s Chloe, walking past, gone before I hardly know she’s passed – But I do know, and I’m glad because I adore her terribly, ineffably & without any great evidence other than my own stubborn assuredness of her eternal absolute angelic beauty that held my gaze and eyes and heart with every passing move she made.  The dark heavy head of hair.  

The cheek bones set high.  The wide and thin lips all a subtle red of sumptuous delight, emissary of words that I held onto as sea shells perfect but for faint cracks wherein their wholeness subsided with sadness – 

 

- her words just that, never quite complete sentences that my ears strained and longed to hear – only stolen utterances that I held and grasped tight, always longing for the fullness of her elegant speech, longing for her to speak long sentences into my ears.  She walks past, she sees me and I see her and we share a little smile that satisfies me for the moment, day and week ahead.  

  That fragmentary moment of relief comes merely as a flickering of the eye and quickening smile that holds within it acknowledgement and goodwill – the moment repeats: the movement of her head to the left; the smile; the eyes closed shut and then opened, neighbouring her smile and pretty purveyor of a breathlessness in me; the black lashes flicked up; 

the red lips turning up; the glance from right to left; the opened eyes; the quick smile; 

all rising to meet and to greet my little old self sat there before her, writing away – though now of course, stopped, admiring her wandering body.

* 

I'm writhing in a cobweb of despair.  The haze has overwhelmed me.  My thighs are tight and tired.

Everything is a murky brown dirge.