Days of Flowing Through (Unedited)

Talk. Listen. Talk. Talk. Listen. The word is an offing to the heart, mellifluous to the ear, and summery to the lover’s soul when she hears the intensifying joy in your tone. Talk. Listen. Talk. Talk. Listen. You talk and I listen to your tender voice. I hear you talk about your travels, your life, and my writings. I hear the straw against the glass. I hear the fork dancing on the plate. I hear your arm moving across the table. I hear you would want us to go to the movies. I hear you say I am tall. I hear you say you are shy. I hear words that don’t matter to us. I hear voices and sounds around us. I hear none. All I can think of is to take us out of the dark room to a place where temptation is more than penciling on a page or typing on the keyboards. A place where words find their true shapes as would clay in the hands of a sculptor.

It is rather unfortunate that I can’t read my writings to you as they blossom on the page. My asthma is in full force today. For every word I type and read, a cough and tears follow. I changed my woolen shirt to a cotton black with a white line around the neck. If I was close to you I would have you kiss my neck. Then I would ask to hear you read what I write for you. You are nine hundred and twenty five days of flowing through a mountain fog away. But it doesn’t matter how far and away you are. To me you live on these pages and in the room where I saw you first. And the desire lives. The desire of my body coming to life next to you glitters the heart and so does the ritual of tracing your voice through the crowded room.