04.Dec.2001

he is softly spoken

--

bursting through, it is softly spoken

The transition from November to December is subtle, but the two are worlds apart. Friday night I found myself holding onto the hours as I held onto my pool stick, pressed against a pool table, cigarette smoke and beer and my nervous arms and his sharp eyes all making it impossible to concentrate.

And I held onto the hours.

Walking back, I said, "It's the last night of November." but the others barely took notice.

He left soon before Jane called simply to hear his voice; she is the sounding board of my impliable affinity for him; his voice would make him real to her. He and I constantly discuss how things change.

The first of December descended upon my walking head, November put to rest, the undoubtable change came then.

Saturday night.

Fate made it such a way that I wound up at his place.

And I found myself stretched on his bed as we watched movies, and he pressed his back against the post and smoked. And smoked. And smoked.

He fell asleep with his back turned to me merely to turn toward me, and I watched the sun rise over his face, thinking that when I have the energy to channel "Slit", she would have a field day with this experience.

An entire 24 hours was spent with him, and the way he looked at me began to change, and the way he talked to me began to change, and I felt him on the molecular level. And the way he closed himself off began to change, and he reached inside to flick that switch, and opened, and spread, ebbed and flowed while lowering his voice, and his electric eyes gleamed.

That Sunday, I said, "I want this buried," and he swept his hands before me and replied, "It's buried." A week later, he dug it up and shoved it into my face and grinned.

The way the tide shifts brings my tired frame to him, my drug-ladled cerebrum to his conscious, I said, "Don't you think the subconscious calls out when the conscious isn't aware?"

He said, "Absolutely."

I tightened my grip on his pillow; he looked at me, I felt the tension creep from beneath the mattress, he pressed his face into his hand, confidense and nerves, and watched.

I finally said, "I can spend all of my time breaking you into chewable tablets, but the fact is that I no longer want to. I am content."

And he curled into me.

And slept.

And Toni Halliday breathes in repetition, "Hung up on romance, hung up on romance, hung up on romance, hung up on romance."

--

time & machine