intimacy breeds contempt

the fantasy of colored lights,
and the vagary of nights, 
stitched together around the arch in my mind,
look like the skirt with polka dots 
— the dots and strips in an alternating linen 
 — sewn through lisle and gossamer
when I shut my eyes,
with eyes wide open,
‘hello’, you say there, whispering, though loud,
as you go down the staircase, 
that takes us above, 
to different floors, 
together, but apart,
curving us like the mobius strip we discussed
when i met you the last time,
but very unlike the umbilic torus you told me — yes, i remember that,
 — that is, though, the reality of stairs,
and us,
with its bumps and troughs.

alternating, the joys and cries of the moment, 
swirl us together in that hurricane
which we built in our head,
shaking the paper and pages,
stretching us beyond the meta of our life,
but contracting us within the shell 
 — the shell that we picked up together,
around the riparian,
where we promised — when we hadn’t touched each other — 
we would go
to pick up the shell — the shell, shuck, bluff, jive,
but we, instead, dropped it down the stairs,
making it sound like the elision,
and the air that passes between teeth and lips,
as we blow our stories,
and ourselves,
with its bumps and troughs.

so, listen, you lissome,
reveal the ravel,
of the lines lain,
on the sheets stitched ,
 — the sheets where we were animated, 
yet palpable and undeniable 
like a performance,
from the theater where I was born,
and the theater where you were happy — 
the theater of ours,
built on sin, slander, guilt and guile,
built by us 
so that we can get each other on the bed,
one the bed where the pact was to be made,
on the bed where the act, 
though, dilatory, 
like most of the other dreams we saw,
and took with it the lines 
made out of the whorl,
until the threads came out,
and scenes became words,
and letters,
and silence,
and this — .

until we spake about what’s beyond us,
 — about why the comely doesn’t remain so anymore,
until we were not sure that
we will surely get the answers in “Petit a petit, l’oiseau fait son nid”,
that my father said — when i would rush for a happier life,
and I said — when you hurried down those stairs,
round the riparian,
where the stories turned,
and so did we,
without wherewithal,
without words,
like the frippery, that was the truth,
like the bravura, that was only to show,
like the dalliance of ours,
 — dalliance to deceive ourselves,
to dance, and deny — 
to yearn, to crave,
to fiddle, to twiddle,
like the moist on the stomach,
where we shine,
moist of whine, moist of cry, moist of legs, between legs,
of the opulence of our story when it dies,
tin-tan-tin-tan, the sound it makes,
as it goes down with you,
away from me,
through the stairs,
on the road, 
that would end where it began,
ending, without its vigor,
ending with it, the last light of our story,
before the night swallows us forever, 
like the blanket which said would keep us cold,
the blanket that lied,
and was fabricated,
and was like you,
and like me,
and like this — .

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