poetry, Prose

Storyteller

Don’t forget that your fragile face, still watches me. Your arms grow into the dark. You once said that light made you more blunt naked, than flinging off your tight clothes. “The darkness makes me feel beautiful.” And I understood that. The night slid over us like a thick skin. I lay next to you. The black cleaning out the dirty daylight, riveted to my skin. At night I was caught in your voice. You drew the lines and shapes my eyes were looking for. Despite the night and the curtains hanging there like wise monks…I could always see your lips.

 

As a child I listened to my librarian. We all gathered around her. Whenever I listened to a story, my probing eyes always locked on to a feature, and remained rapt for the rest it. I watched the old lady’s double chin wobble. It also grew and shrunk sometimes supported by a hand when the book became heavy. Her face was probably as animated, but the substance drifting in the voice buried me into the background of mine.

 

Jessica, I have watched her lips. It seemed as she was opening a storybook every night, and explaining the drawings. Most people say that in your face your eye contains the most emotion. If that was so those nights Jessica’s lips carried the most empathy. She could just touch it with an unbuttoned finger, or move the corners out to the end. At the end of the chapter, she’d lick them. It was brief gloss over them, a constant habit.

 

Jessica turned my head into something that spoke. She drew out my feelings, and taught me the dark. In the morning, she’d never look the same. This morning I bent over her calm figure. I looked into her glossy eyes. Two irreversible cataracts covered her eyes since infanthood. They were as permanent as two coins on the eyes of the dead. I looked at her and smiled. A tear sliced the side of my face.

It crept down onto my lip

(Period)

 

 

 

PhilosopherPoet

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