all, prose & poetry, thoughts

Cast away

You put a spell on me. Not with your words, which self-destruct like coded spy notes. Not with promises made in a haze of smoke and ice cubes cracking in your whiskey, which melt away with morning fog at first sunlight. Not with your lips, which are greedy and selfish, which pull me in, your stubble scratching my skin and your tongue rough, like a cat’s. Not with your eyes, which pierce and enchant, then look away when my own rise to meet them. Not with your music, which randomly shuffles into my life, usurping the soundtrack of my moments, disrupting the equilibrium of my thoughts, beating along with the throbbing of old wounds, as if your pulse is the same as mine, our blood flowing as one.

But that night, as we walked through the city of a million strangers and a dozen friends, you took my hand and held it so gently, so surely, never letting it go. You held my hand and I floated over the cobblestones, higher and higher, in disbelief and enchantment, joining the blossoms soaring in the city’s winds.

And then the night was over, and the day came, and the next, and I’m still here, floating with the fallen flowers and the plastic bags and the stray feathers, lost and off-course, getting stuck on branches and lampposts before the wind gusts rip me off and carry me higher still, possessed by the memory of your hand holding mine.

Where are you now that I am so high above, spell-bound and cursed, no longer even human, not knowing how to bring you up to me or how to come back down?

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all, thoughts

Must be 

I look outside my window and see skyscrapers prickling up like porcupine needles. The grey sky is crystallizing and tightening its grip on brick and concrete. Instead of snow, the ragged cloud cover is raining with dust. 

It’s possible to see beyond. Miles and miles of cemented landscape like old, thick, goosebumped skin. It curves at the horizon revealing the creature’s shape. A spherical, gargantuan atrocity; turning slower and harsher, a rusted knob it has become; ceased to be organic long ago.  

I listen. It’s not quite silence and it’s not a roar. It’s the sound of something closing in, of something cog-like aligning, of something tightening and bracing. Must be night. Must be time stopping.
 
 
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all, prose & poetry

There was no light

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There was no light nor any star patterns in the sky. The darkness has been complete at nights, and there was still over a month left of winter.

The ship rocked slightly in the wind but no gust was strong enough to make it move even a hair’s width between the ice plates. The single mast creaked tiredly amidst the howling air.

The vessel’s only inhabitant leaned back against the deck and adjusted his body to blend in with the frozen wood.

“This isn’t the end,” he thought.  Once the ice plates began to melt, it wouldn’t take long to find land. He only had to last until then.

“Not yet.”

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