Threaded Chronologies of Longing
Word-flung reveries: A Prose-Poem
Like Ariadne, I’m holding a finger to the humming thread of us. In the pre-dawn dream of my misted cup of the sky, the thread vibrates — winding words from you, unravelling through your keyboard, permeating sleep’s hazy labyrinth — I wake with the pull of your textual desire … think, from the hedged pathways leading outwards from sleep — you’ve left the room, just for a moment — you seem so close, but —
Is that Hermes, hovering outside my window, the scent of singed wings like the toast I’ll burn later, lingering over your lines, lifted from the blood and arteries of your longing? Love tastes like charcoal this morning — my mouth too full of your words to care.
All the clocks in all my rooms are drunk. Not one of them can tell the time of us. Pick them up, shake them, turn them upside down — but they never tell both sides of the story. Mark the morning, midday and midnight of us in the translations of missives via digital discourse — no less literary than if they’d been inked on the finest vellum.
We descend from the lineage of epistolary lovers. I sip from china teacups as I write, swooning over your words as if my heart was corsetted. You spin words like a Renaissance dandy in radical disguise — tattoos over your chest instead of silk kerchief in breast…
