Her

Not sure what to call it. Maybe I was trying to channel my inner Murakami? It's about this elusive woman in the darkness and me.

She runs, she runs and she smiles, playfully in the spaces between the many hues the burning light of glorious memory scatters into, and when I see these colours, this bright, beautiful stream of colours falling on the damp, derelict wall, not playing any more but just lying on it still, I feel a quiet sadness - so invisible and so faint, it's almost like not feeling it but it's there, I know it, it's there, just like her. She's around there. Far away. Somewhere. I am sure of that. But she's certainly not here. In this house.

 

She is there in the point of contact between the dark, red wine and my tongue and as it flows down the sighing skin of my throat, warming me wherever it flows through. I find her. I close my eyes and I can see her. I remember her. Tastes like her.

 

Then I lose her in my belly and I reach for my glass again.

 

And some nights, when I listen to a nice, little tune played by some orchestra in some studio room recorded by one lonely man in another room, composed by a much older, sombre man who loves smoking and looking out the window to see the night-time sky punctuated by stars that stare in muted bewilderment and the black rectangles with yellow and brown squares that shoot out from below, with not a hint of courtesy, and he can hear a man and his woman fighting and another man sighing into his saxophone while a young, little girl looks outside from her room with dreamy eyes, searching for her lover who would be coming any time now, and as he saw all this he would be caressing his fat pet cat, and in his smile that would appear any time and always without warning, I catch a glimpse of her. Just like that. Like a flash, she comes and goes. And I lose myself in the strings again, half of my mind sleeping, the other half wandering, looking for her in a rain of strings. It's raining strings.

 

She dances.

 

She dances in the flame of a burning candle. somehow exuding grace in chaos. She dances, her arms wide open by her head, asking for perhaps rain or yearning for love from God or God from love. Her hips and waist sway to the rhythm of a snake, twitching on desert sand, drunk in her own poison, mad with passion or some such thing that neither lets you live nor die but just makes you do things like...twitching and dancing with no end in sight. I stare at her helplessly, weak, powerless and confused like a twelve year old unsure of what to make of all that which seems strangely new and disturbingly tangible. I keep staring at her, sometimes glaring, hoping with what is more whim than dogged purpose, to control her movements, her madness, her rage but the wind - it only gets wilder and she - she gets all the more frightening.

 

I decide I cannot take it any more. So I get close to her and blow her off into darkness.

 

A quick and quiet end.

Author's Note

So what do you think of it?

Reviews

[bitz]

Ending z bit weird I think...elaborat it...may b helpful
Wil u review my poem ...dat girl in purple.