These hands...
...grip hard the ground; a message I wish I could deliver. Three weeks old today. Graffiti on paper, thin like tissue. Quotidian blue biro covers three small sides. The envelope damaged in my bag ready for delivery, creased by every day life mindlessly thrown in - then left on the dresser in my room to avoid impulsive delivery. Chewed thoughtfully in the top corner on a Wednesday. I sat in the place where I can see your bedroom light. From the walls of that metal room my untruths did resonate, so very loudly. I drove home again, your letter on the dashboard ringing in my ears, the envelope as gleaming white as my lies dark. Three drafts and one final they did scrawl on these pages. Each page a panel in the barricade looming within my chest.
These hands so cold, smother this panting fire, writing reasons why not. Why I can’t be with you, like you, listen to you, forgive you, stay with you, remember you or understand you.
Yet in all these words
All it says is – meet me
meet me
meet me.
posted by Anonymous | 10:12 pm
I've read this so many times over. Completely, mesmerisingly brilliant.
What JiB said.
Where is montauk?
Im loving the subtle post-editing going on.
Yeah, i just noticed the editing. I think I liked the flow of the first draft better for some reason, though this is still good. I recall a greater urgency, a more breathless quality in the first.
I think Montauk is at the tip of Long Island in New York. But, I see that's been edited in and then back out.
You should post more often, Mr./Ms. Deadly.
That's really all that was changed? Hrm. Then yes, it must be the fact that I've read it about 100 times. :-)