Wednesday, October 15, 2008

¡ spacious loquacious !

Radical Face - Welcome Home, Son - - Ghost

I was just wondering why I never noticed your lips. Will the Pious P.C. call me sexist for saying as much? At the moment it's no more true than the moment before. My saying so does not and should never degrade you as a person; you are still unique, clever, bold and loquacious. The person I never knew I could have known until the time had past. Now left me to notice among other things how perfect your lips seem. Now leave me to wonder if I could have noticed sooner, and if it could have made a difference. Someday someone will tell me how similar we seem. We then compare vocabulary or punctuation, prose or narration and perhaps agree that the things I've once said resemble the things you will say someday; or that meandering through your personal dialog is a tributary which feeds into the same general woe myself and so many others have also found. All for naught when I was first caught in by something much more simple.

I've missed or forfeited more opportunities than I've managed to destroy no doubt. Sometimes that fact is thrown into sharper relief than at other times. There are always going to be the imagined moments of reminiscence where somehow I find myself so utterly delusional as to feel some sort of nostalgia for something which never even took place. Incomplete notions, nagging at my psyche like so many un-itched insect bites. "If only that had come to fruition." "If only I'd said something else." Why are there times where I do remember something, as it happened...detailed and real, though it never truly took place? If my mind can manifest any experience it chooses to, replacing the real with the reverie, let me remember your lips tonight.

Let tomorrow bear the weight of the real.

When I wake I will forget their feel; the strings of unconsciousness anchoring the apocryphal sensations firmly in the realm of sleep and dreams, slipping piece by piece from my mind as it is replaced bit by bit with waking thought. Your warmth will be replaced by the colour of the sun on my bedroom walls, your taste by the sound of the ceiling fan. When I look to the clock, the last bit of imagined feeling will be vanished before I can read the minutes of morning.

Someday I will not remember how we met, or our first conversation. I may go blind to the colour of your eyes and senile to your form, which in another time I may have been able to recognize even in mere silhouette. My own notions of what we could have been will blur with what we probably were not. Yet tonight, allow me to remember your lips.

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