I was compelled to venture to the rooftops on the night of the fourteenth for a contemplative Turkish Silver; the sleeping habits of the building's occupants aiding my passage.
Under the dim light of obscured street lamps I ran my hand over the breadth of a wall, each finger translating the sensation underneath: the rough, minute perforations on the surface of the concrete, the flecked, almost chalky smoothness of the rust, the hardened tar retaining only a slight trace of its former viscosity.
From a pocket, I removed a time-worn wallet and reached into the smallest of its niches for a memento buried deep within: a single lock of hair.
It had lost some of its physical consistency, the few strands themselves tentatively holding together as if fearing separation as their death. Each color, perhaps in spite of the inclinations of the strands, still retained its chroma - almost defiantly - in the impromptu trinity: the midnight black, the mottled red, the gold tinged with ocher.
I ran my fingers through the lock only once. It was a delicate movement that began in the center and followed a slight curl, allowing my fingers to delight in the surprising softness of the texture between them before an abrupt - and unwanted - end.
It was a bittersweet reflection:
Age will decompose the wall to its most base elements, the hair will disintegrate to dust, but my soul, my soul, my soul... still cannot move from this spot, a moment in time where I ran my fingers lovingly through a lock of hair.
On Valentine's day I sat in confusion on my bed. Embracing the cold of my room and looking at the large oak bureau with mirror and my collection of the few memories I still cherish, that I cannot let go. You gave me some pictures when you finally understood that I never wanted to cause you pain, pictures and a Chinese coin from the T'ang dynasty tied with hemp.
I hung the coin on my rear-view mirror. When I am in the midst of driving, lost in thought, I check behind me obsessively. The pictures I put on the mirror on the bureau. My reflection is framed by their memories every morning.
When I see them, on this cold day in February, I look back in your rear-view mirror when you were taking advantage of twilight's reflections and voyeuristically capturing the people in the jeep behind you: double exposure, without double exposure. I look back on the reflections of my home town in your eyes: a field with tightly rolled round bales of hay, arranged in an skewed line. The sun was cascading through the clouds bathing the serenity in a lambent glow and it enabled me to understand, as if for the first time, where I come from and what has influenced me.
Remember the time when you kidnapped me? Was it the same day that you took both pictures, or just one of them? We were laughing as we made our way back on 161 until that officer pulled us over. We were nervous, but he simply smiled at us, said he understood that it was a beautiful day and was just checking to make sure we were not drunk. What a nice man.
On that day in February, the memory of these summer moments made me warm again, but I too could not move. The remembering done, I was brought back to reality by the cold of my room, it is freezing and my only company, these phantasms, provide warmth only when I get lost in them. When I am found again, it is colder than it was before.
Every, single, damn morning, when I look in the mirror, I am still boxed in by the past. Why can't I just let go?
On Valentine's day I sat in confusion on my bed. Embracing the cold of my room and looking at the large oak bureau with mirror and my collection of the few memories I still cherish, that I cannot let go. You gave me some pictures when you finally understood that I never wanted to cause you pain, pictures and a Chinese coin from the T'ang dynasty tied with hemp.
I hung the coin on my rear-view mirror. When I am in the midst of driving, lost in thought, I check behind me obsessively. The pictures I put on the mirror on the bureau. My reflection is framed by their memories every morning.
When I see them, on this cold day in February, I look back in your rear-view mirror when you were taking advantage of twilight's reflections and voyeuristically capturing the people in the jeep behind you: double exposure, without double exposure. I look back on the reflections of my home town in your eyes: a field with tightly rolled round bales of hay, arranged in an skewed line. The sun was cascading through the clouds bathing the serenity in a lambent glow and it enabled me to understand, as if for the first time, where I come from and what has influenced me.
Remember the time when you kidnapped me? Was it the same day that you took both pictures, or just one of them? We were laughing as we made our way back on 161 until that officer pulled us over. We were nervous, but he simply smiled at us, said he understood that it was a beautiful day and was just checking to make sure we were not drunk. What a nice man.
On that day in February, the memory of these summer moments made me warm again, but I too could not move. The remembering done, I was brought back to reality by the cold of my room, it is freezing and my only company, these phantasms, provide warmth only when I get lost in them. When I am found again, it is colder than it was before.
Every, single, damn morning, when I look in the mirror, I am still boxed in by the past. Why can't I just let go?
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This is my heart on Valentine's Day.
I was compelled to venture to the rooftops on the night of the fourteenth for a contemplative Turkish Silver; the sleeping habits of the building's occupants aiding my passage.
Under the dim light of obscured street lamps I ran my hand over the breadth of a wall, each finger translating the sensation underneath: the rough, minute perforations on the surface of the concrete, the flecked, almost chalky smoothness of the rust, the hardened tar retaining only a slight trace of its former viscosity.
From a pocket, I removed a time-worn wallet and reached into the smallest of its niches for a memento buried deep within: a single lock of hair.
It had lost some of its physical consistency, the few strands themselves tentatively holding together as if fearing separation as their death. Each color, perhaps in spite of the inclinations of the strands, still retained its chroma - almost defiantly - in the impromptu trinity: the midnight black, the mottled red, the gold tinged with ocher.
I ran my fingers through the lock only once. It was a delicate movement that began in the center and followed a slight curl, allowing my fingers to delight in the surprising softness of the texture between them before an abrupt - and unwanted - end.
It was a bittersweet reflection:
Age will decompose the wall to its most base elements, the hair will disintegrate to dust, but my soul, my soul, my soul... still cannot move from this spot, a moment in time where I ran my fingers lovingly through a lock of hair.
It was an unhappy Valentine's Day... 'puff.
On Valentine's day I sat in confusion on my bed. Embracing the cold of my room and looking at the large oak bureau with mirror and my collection of the few memories I still cherish, that I cannot let go. You gave me some pictures when you finally understood that I never wanted to cause you pain, pictures and a Chinese coin from the T'ang dynasty tied with hemp.
I hung the coin on my rear-view mirror. When I am in the midst of driving, lost in thought, I check behind me obsessively. The pictures I put on the mirror on the bureau. My reflection is framed by their memories every morning.
When I see them, on this cold day in February, I look back in your rear-view mirror when you were taking advantage of twilight's reflections and voyeuristically capturing the people in the jeep behind you: double exposure, without double exposure. I look back on the reflections of my home town in your eyes: a field with tightly rolled round bales of hay, arranged in an skewed line. The sun was cascading through the clouds bathing the serenity in a lambent glow and it enabled me to understand, as if for the first time, where I come from and what has influenced me.
Remember the time when you kidnapped me? Was it the same day that you took both pictures, or just one of them? We were laughing as we made our way back on 161 until that officer pulled us over. We were nervous, but he simply smiled at us, said he understood that it was a beautiful day and was just checking to make sure we were not drunk. What a nice man.
On that day in February, the memory of these summer moments made me warm again, but I too could not move. The remembering done, I was brought back to reality by the cold of my room, it is freezing and my only company, these phantasms, provide warmth only when I get lost in them. When I am found again, it is colder than it was before.
Every, single, damn morning, when I look in the mirror, I am still boxed in by the past. Why can't I just let go?
On Valentine's day I sat in confusion on my bed. Embracing the cold of my room and looking at the large oak bureau with mirror and my collection of the few memories I still cherish, that I cannot let go. You gave me some pictures when you finally understood that I never wanted to cause you pain, pictures and a Chinese coin from the T'ang dynasty tied with hemp.
I hung the coin on my rear-view mirror. When I am in the midst of driving, lost in thought, I check behind me obsessively. The pictures I put on the mirror on the bureau. My reflection is framed by their memories every morning.
When I see them, on this cold day in February, I look back in your rear-view mirror when you were taking advantage of twilight's reflections and voyeuristically capturing the people in the jeep behind you: double exposure, without double exposure. I look back on the reflections of my home town in your eyes: a field with tightly rolled round bales of hay, arranged in an skewed line. The sun was cascading through the clouds bathing the serenity in a lambent glow and it enabled me to understand, as if for the first time, where I come from and what has influenced me.
Remember the time when you kidnapped me? Was it the same day that you took both pictures, or just one of them? We were laughing as we made our way back on 161 until that officer pulled us over. We were nervous, but he simply smiled at us, said he understood that it was a beautiful day and was just checking to make sure we were not drunk. What a nice man.
On that day in February, the memory of these summer moments made me warm again, but I too could not move. The remembering done, I was brought back to reality by the cold of my room, it is freezing and my only company, these phantasms, provide warmth only when I get lost in them. When I am found again, it is colder than it was before.
Every, single, damn morning, when I look in the mirror, I am still boxed in by the past. Why can't I just let go?
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