Monday, 18 August 2014

Punctuations.

That root-like promise she made, in the half-light, in his balmy lap—does she remember it, or not? That touch with which he touched her after her body had longed so long for such a touch—does he remember this, or not? When they sleep, somewhere, as if by a charm, they recall it all, little by little, and forget them all, more and more—do they know this, or not? They were as if the seasons begot children - to play, to weep, to be naughty, to be in sorrow - do they still feel this, or not?

That same corner by Great Portland Street, does it still mark their first kiss, or not? That grey building door that he unlocked to see her lungs court in all that white smoke only to be coughed out—does the wind there still carry her breath, or not? That lone bench, by the rustling water that fell and crashed in the autumn day fringed of gold and red—does it still hold their stolen warmth, or not? Or that pitch black—that searching for the other’s hand on the table because people only ate in the dark there, that same closeness, that exact heat of her hand, that precise cold of his—does the dark still commemorate them there, or not?

In these and all, there, something lived and died.
In these and all, something’s forever cursed to lay in wait.
When at last the River opened up to him beneath the Green Bridge, it told him that it had seen men like him before, that like his, some people’s lives are punctuated with the careless slaughter of love.