The ground is covered by a blanket of white. The snow, it falls and rests. It layers the cement, buries the trash littered across these streets. Life in mono. White and pure. The light found in dawn this season, tinged with less spectacular colors... even the sun seems to withdraw in winter's dew. Reflection amongst us all was due. See, the magic of this world lives within its alchemy. It comes about gradually... The ticking hands of a clock, the setting of a sun. The extraction of honey. And oil. Making of a fire. Blooming of a bud. Ripening of a fruit. The swelling of a pregnancy. And the fragile way a water drop clings to a leaf right before the fall. All of it... gradual. Then suddenly. Lovers, together. An orgasm. And release. What are the residual effects of being left with the Gradual Sudden, crossover this line to have the most abstract concepts defined. I seem to be the victim of the Gradual Sudden. I seem to love and loathe its rhythm that leaves me hanging in lip-biting suspense. It happened gradually. The warming of spring. For there are still remnants of ice on these grounds. My twisted ankle and cut open palm have witnessed intimately what cold can bring. I type this with one hand bandaged and feel hopelessly resilient to the dried blood and new skin forming beneath. My hand, Still destined to follow this law. Gradually leading to All of a Sudden... when the Sun vanquishes the last bits of frost. And the bandages come off. Perhaps this is why I love scars so much. There is a sense of permanence that rebels against this law. the wound fades gradually. And like a brand, the scar remains there and marks its existence on our flesh permanently. I suppose that is the strange way I desire to be loved. A childish fantasy, feverish and immature. I do not admit to having yet evolved past the insatiable burning that exists within my dreams. And this mysterious man that occasionally haunts me in them. Bringing with him, the sea. Dark waters and Home always around him and me. I delight in knowing him, however temporary in the other plains. The shape of his dark brow and full lips. I've tasted them before in a way I could not allow myself to in the here and now. I know his love is vast as it is deep and I rejoice in being able to write about it in poetry. The distance is painful, yet comforting. To know.... that I know so intimately the lines of his hands, and around his eyes. Our bodies pressed against the rocks of black waters. Falling in love, ah... the Gradual Sudden. |
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