#FlowersOfSapphire

quotes

The path is made of noises, but if I try hard enough, I can make out the ones that make sense; the laughs, the sighs, the moans, the sobs and the unmistakable groan of parting. 

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It feels as if I have passed through a rhythm. The vibrations linger on my eyelids for a while and I open my eyes. The fan above me is still, the brown blades gone black on the edges with dirt and cigarette smoke. Like motes of dust floating in a sunbeam through an open window, the notes of a song make their way to me. The paint has faded from the walls; no one has lived here for a long time. I realize where I am and try hard not to crumble. Before she appears in my sight, her fragrance appears all around me; warding off the stench of decaying years. “Damn Cal”, she says, “I thought you’d sleep the whole evening.” I look at her through a misty consciousness. “How long has it been?” I ask. She seems not to have heard me, her hands join in a soft clap and she looks all around, beaming when her eyes come back on me. “This isn’t all that shabby”, she says. The thought of not being able to feel it scares me and I move a cautious finger, carrying a strand from her forehead to the back of her ear. “I’ve missed this texture”, I breathe out and my fingers move more; across her cheek and the tip of my finger brushes on her lips. With curious eyes and a kiss on my thumb, she gets up from the bed. For a split second she seems to be lost, a vacant air of ache passes over her face then she gathers herself; as wonderfully as always. “C’mon Calvin, we have to move”, she says and walks away. I follow her into a nebulous path, her silhouette few steps from me, her body an unimaginable distance away. Softly I hum along with the song  ‘And it’s not a cry you hear at night It’s not somebody who’s seen the light, It’s a cold and it’s a broken Hallelujah’   The path is made of noises, but if I try hard enough, I can make out the ones that make sense; the laughs, the sighs, the moans, the sobs and the unmistakable groan of parting. My clothes have changed and I step into an aura of beats. The powdery and coloured lights from the dance floor strike against the air and fall upon the floor in black shadows. The terrace is lonesome; she sits across a table with a cigarette burnt half in between her fingers. Her smile is easy and on her white dress black circles run around from the waist down. “That took you long”, she huffs and passes me the smoke. I take a long drag. The taste of her gloss is just a distant memory on the moist end of the stick. She takes my hand and presses the tip of her fingers against mine, she laughs and I see a white band in the sky burst into a million stars. I am beaten by the ragged edges of yearnings, the candle flickers inside the glass on the table, and in a room far away I lie next to her watching the light from two little Christmas lamps breaking on her skin, like moonlight on tranquil Atlantic waves.   She draws closer to me and my eyes close at the touch of her lips on my neck. My hands presses on the back of her head as her tongue plays on my skin and wrenches my heartbeats. I take off her shirt; her breath falls flowery and sporadic on my lips. The staccato sounds of the night move far away and the only sounds that exist is that of every particle in me shouting.   “Please let this be real” I whisper and part her lips with my tongue. I taste vodka and memories in her mouth and with our tongues dancing she straddles me. My fingers push hard on her waist and the fringes of her hair brush on my shoulders. She brings her mouth next to my ear and in turbulent desires of a drenched time, whispers; “Fuck me, Cal”. The dark almonds of her eyes sparkle and her face weighs heavy on me in a collective ache of unforgotten past. I look at her, I can’t say how much time passes us by and I wonder if love is something as warm as the light cascading down the curves of her body over my fingers or something as cold as the emptiness that lingers when that memory finds its way back to me, again and again, in dreams from an unfathomable distance away.   “Mira”, I exhale and her body slips away from my grasp; leaving a wet trail of tattered tunes of a violin in the humdrum of wakefulness from my eyes. #YQBaba #longprose #FlowersOfSapphire

2 MAR AT 21:04