This prolonged silence, long as it is honest, suffocates my heart.
I always do that… have these speakings of the heart. Is it so bad that I feel so deeply?
I don’t know, but these words seem to always fall on empty ears and hardened hearts.
I don’t enjoy stringing my heart along an endless line.
Is it so bad that I miss talking with you?
I guess it is.
“I just want your body.”
Leave my head, leave me to my sanity. Let my torture be stopped – images of lips on ears, of whispering words of desire and passion – my stomach is sick from the thought of my yearning. Makes me think how you aren’t worth my tears or my desire. But that doesn’t matter does it. You began this desire like a fire which you have now abandoned to go out of control with no means of being put out.
I’m beginning to hate this line. It is torturing me like a picture book where ever page has the same line with the same picture of his body, rippling with perfected muscles. Oh, and the tattoos! How their blank ink swells my heart.
This line must seem shallow, and to a point I guess it is. My desire has been whittled down because I can’t have more.
One day as I sat on the GO bus on the way home, I felt inspired to write. A line I wrote that I simply adore was, “I wear my heart on my tongue.” Although I intend to use this line for the basis of a short-short story, I thought I would describe a visual that comes to mind.
Valentine’s Day Candy Heart
My tongue extends out of my open mouth to display the chemically induced pink of a candy heart. The candy has no smell and its texture is gritty against my taste buds. It does not dissolve since my tongue is exposed to the open air and dries from the tip up. Curling to hold the candy in place, my tongue touches the pointed end of the incorrectly named shape, that steals its name from a beating muscle of chambers. It is prominent and ever present, this point that is like the period of a sentence: if present, it is the end all, punctuating finality; if missing, your eyes are left searching of the missing link.
My tongue has begun to dry out from the tip up, as if the candy spread out a thin sheet. I retract it into the confines of my mouth carrying the candy like a surfer on the waves. The chalky substance crinkling my face as I crush the heart between my teeth. This candy has no taste. As I ponder the possibility of how a candy (is it not mostly made of sugar?) can have no sweetness, I instruct myself to be wiser in the future: Don’t take the candy next time, it is always disappointing.
Breathless and still, my stomach is heavy as a stone.
The floating emptiness inching towards the heavens of my mouth.
The blood in my veins circulate through my body, above the chaos of abdomen.
The inner tubing of my chest carries the thud that beats from my heart to the left ear.
The collar bone, lying above this network of tissue, resists against my spandex skin:
A beauty of the Jurassic kind.
Hmmm I’m in a mood…relieved, relaxed, enchanted…I can’t describe it. My heart lingers with emotion. Does your heart expand until your throat feels it will shut? Glance into a world of gods and angels…
Julian didn’t want to seduce this goddess into thinking this was about sex; it was about pleasure, living a life of pleasure and ecstasy. He loved her, Dea, in every meaning of the word – in obsession and possession, in gentle touches and kind caresses, in rough, demanding passion. She is cute and shy, avoiding his eyes and blushing at the words he whispers into her delicate ear. He loves the thick, brown hair that surrounds this ear, some sort of mix between curly and straight that she hates for its difficulty. He loves it, finding a rare curl and capturing it around his finger, it was his, a silken tether to a goddess that blessed him by roaming his home in a toga of bed sheets.
Sara laid there, Michael’s angel, sleeping quietly. He lay beside her, watching her heavenly face as she dreamed something that curled her lips into a sweet smile. He contemplated running his fingers over the side of her face, brushing aside a strand of curled, black hair, or kissing her delicate finger tips that knew the piano so well.
Crushed breaths in my chest, he whispers against my lips. His powerful hands interlace themselves with my caramel hair as he supports my bare shoulders with his forearms. This playful nothingness is torture, ecstasy, and more intimate than words.
I can sit here all day, looking into your face of beautiful lashes and thick lips. Is it so wrong to admire you, to adore your looks, to find you strangely sexy? I know nothing could ever happen, but there is no stop to the silent film that plays in my head.
John could cry looking at Mia’s beautiful face with eyes full of impossibly long lashes. It boggled his mind how this beautiful creature could exist in his life; she was stunning in her sleep. But it hurt to touch her skin, burned the pads of his finger until it reached his heart and punctured it like a body stabbed and bleeding. He tried to remember her voice, the words that had fallen from her full lips; it only gave him a head ache. He left her on the bed, the faint morning light penetrating the white curtains above her sleeping figure, wrapped in the dark lime green blanket that was as soft as her skin.
How does one become sophisticated? Do you learn it? Can it only be absorbed as a child? I know it is not like maturity. Maturity is attained through hard lessons and loss of innocence. You are mature when you can make decisions that are considered good but you hate to make.
I wonder what the loss of innocence will bring. I have my mature moments but in many ways I am still innocent. It makes me think of the essence of your soul being sucked out by the vacuum we call life. It makes me think of a blurb I wrote for class:
“That funny boy with the long, thin face and blue eyes that are somewhat standoffish. He likes to be edgy or is it racy? Scandalous. Yet he seems distant and lonely, opting to keep people at arms length. Maybe I perceive that from reading him. He seems mature, or is that just time wearing him down? Do we mature or just get worn down to a point that changes us? Only to be brought to another point where any change is beyond us? I forget his name; it is always changes: a chameleon in letters. I should just use his one, but that is too revealing. He seems sweet, with his smile and face of stubble.”
Innocence is the water that fills the well of our being. As we age it dries out from use and spills as we stumble. It seeps through the cracks and into the ground until we are empty. All that remains is the subdued heart and the crowded mind, still wet from childhood.
