Montreal
05-26-2008, 11:37 PM
A whistle, clean and sharp, cuts through the air. I hold my breath over bridges and under tunnels, and walk in the direction of the wind. You hide in tall grass and you live behind a fisheye lens. Warped and distorted, the world looks so much simpler in a goldfish's dilation. Lush and green, your infant taste for the world is promising…a new smile for every second you root yourself into me. In a world so large, how can our eyes be so small? You smile again, between every kiss, I don't have to see it to know it lingers. We are laying down pianos across the world, notes in every step we take. We hop over the accidentals and remain in the natural, sharps and flats withheld in our laughter. Flourished and wanton, always whole notes, never a clean break. You prefer the laughter over the silence, polished silver to hide the dusty wood. Layer upon layer of distress is veiled like rings of an oak, the lines under your eyes and across your wrists help me count the years.
A newer sort of stranger awakens your guttural throat to that cobweb in your soul, rusty from no use. Tired and wavering, I can hear it shake. Or maybe that was just my hands, that tremble that gets stronger and stronger with every word you lay upon my ears. There is life outside this fish bowl. And with that, you are cast into that blind spell with your hands tied behind your back. That eternal itch you can never scratch begins to creep up my spine like an acid flashback, everything is color and silence. I am left waiting, mute and hindered, wings clipped and without gills. You dig your bed out of liquid molten marrow of that golden stone, fiery and tempting. You submerge yourself and it hardens around you, freezing you in time. You smile the same smile now, never a million for a minute with me. Your hands are in a permanent open palm, pointed towards me, beckoning. Dive, you almost whisper in the shadows of my deafness. Break the bowl. Move that lens from in front of your eyes. It is in that moment, I realize, my eyes are open. That venomous ghost climbs behind my eyelids to dip me into the melted amber. Nervous system taken over, instinct pulls my own fingers to my throat. Climb. Scratch.
I can't hear your piano any longer.
We're all flat and sharp now.
A newer sort of stranger awakens your guttural throat to that cobweb in your soul, rusty from no use. Tired and wavering, I can hear it shake. Or maybe that was just my hands, that tremble that gets stronger and stronger with every word you lay upon my ears. There is life outside this fish bowl. And with that, you are cast into that blind spell with your hands tied behind your back. That eternal itch you can never scratch begins to creep up my spine like an acid flashback, everything is color and silence. I am left waiting, mute and hindered, wings clipped and without gills. You dig your bed out of liquid molten marrow of that golden stone, fiery and tempting. You submerge yourself and it hardens around you, freezing you in time. You smile the same smile now, never a million for a minute with me. Your hands are in a permanent open palm, pointed towards me, beckoning. Dive, you almost whisper in the shadows of my deafness. Break the bowl. Move that lens from in front of your eyes. It is in that moment, I realize, my eyes are open. That venomous ghost climbs behind my eyelids to dip me into the melted amber. Nervous system taken over, instinct pulls my own fingers to my throat. Climb. Scratch.
I can't hear your piano any longer.
We're all flat and sharp now.