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Do you know what it's like
to be pulled further from the sun, wondering how it becomes warmer, and why the roads you're on stay lit up as clear as day. Do you know what it's like to feel the hours you stand on take their holiday, the distance between now and the next measured by the imprint of his lips, on your lips. And seconds are replaced with passes of his fingertips 'round the small of your back. This is what happens when the universe gets time right, and when we're no longer dependent on a sun to replace our carnal desire, for desire. And when life is measured by the shortest distance between each other. Surfers know the strength it takes to let the ocean do its thing to your body as you find yourself sinking in its swallow. The chaos of natures mutilation only escalates when you fight the inevitable, the next ton of force in line to keep you below surface. And when you're finally able to find yourself out of the inside, and into the air outside, you inhale the assumption that this was a reminder that you've been wrestling with the Gods. But the truth is in the exhale. We're all only wrestling with ourselves, in Gods backyard.  I may not ever get his name tattooed on my body, but I think I understand why people do.
Because it's not enough to have the feeling of being at home burnt into the ghosts of their breastbone and where the heart presses against but never quite pierces the skin. The tattoo brings life to the ghosts, makes human the pieces of our bodies. The thought of missing and the idea of forever are temporarily transposed into a ceremony where mortality isn't a misfortune, but an indulgence. How can it be so bad, that ink makes our dying cells permanent. |
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October 2017
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