She bit the scentance in half with teeth like (blank)

Look at the girl, who is boy, and also woman. She is everything but a man, which is okay because /you/, girl, are man enough for a monastary. Adore her, but do not share the words for this. Not now, with the tear-creme on her cheeks beneath the dish of her glasses; her eyes and heart bent over books of memories and old poetry.

Now is the hour of all-silence but the scrape of a pen.

You hold your book one-handed because the other squeezes hers. You two look like the sign of picies or the letter S; hooked by the thread of your hands and curved towards your opposite books.

She genuflects, recalls the past, purges= makes catharsis? You hope so- you're not and not knowing her head, if you would, if you might be her heart.

And you, poised on the present, keening with things-yet-gone and things-that-will-be. The act of writing encroaches upon the future, didn't you know?

You, who spent the last 24 hours lamenting the victorian wall between you and the past, which you and a few continue to chip, chip, chip at. And you seethed at the American Nazi's foolish exclamation,

"History is Bunk."

You know better, watching her remember her own small history in light of the suffocating present.

And you can't help but look past that pain and that reason for just-one-moment! between the realities of the evening, which you deeply regret, to reflect upon the reality of her face. Dark arc of eyelashes, the perfect pink bow of her lips you so delight in, the sweep of her auburn-brown hair caught up in a barette and the heart-devouring expression of divine consternation that furrows her brow.

And she looks at you and tells you how it is to be. And you smile at her as you listen, searching for some wordless way to express that you love her. So you kiss her wrist, and hope that she will believe your lips more readily in that manner. Perhaps she does, you do not know. 'Yours' and 'Hers' are blurring, yes, but there are some things that remain ever seperate. You know how painful the jolt of remebering /that/ can be; the tears and empty jaw-working it ends in.

You feel though, the ever rare tears rise to your eyes as you look at her again, and you know you will risk it. you'll learn, you'll try... her cheek begs your kisses.

She asks if you've ever fainted. You can't lose that sort of control. Like the tears that are just not there anymore, having risen -- yes -- but not fallen.

You are mad for her, with her, because the madness is understandable if the emotion isn't; because you are mad yourself, and in madness or sanity; love, love. Whether this fever is the sangria or her voluptous shape beneath her white linen sheath -- you know not, you care not. The hair on her forehead and framing her face begs your fingers.

She will have to take you home. But leave this moment to the Artist, ere that, ere the parting (even for a little while), ere forever, ere tomorrow. Take unto yourself this one moment of pain and sickness and relfection and utter, utter beauty. For the night is fragrant, the wind cool and the sky warm; her clothes and her colours were made to compliment and accompany Now. This.

And then she takes you home, and all you can do is miss it.

<<agé chose>>

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