The Shell Of It
2004-08-04Inside allows just the air to lick me. I swear by all that makes me whole that if I were left out in the sun, it would flame down on me and eat me entirely. My skin has been tender long enough. The rotations of this Earth and kneeding and knotted me into the dough longing for it's yeast. Let the sun come. Let it make the oven which leads me to be devoured.
Oh, but thoughts turned to stories, stories into type, type into viewscapes that make me chuckle. Almosts a shudder of laughter tripping me into the patch-bush of embarassment. Though I promise never to feel regret. What a crime some would say. I would say. But isn't regret such an easy temptation? Are the thorns of embarassent merely branches reaching out to surround you? So many times do I fear the fall, but the prickly pokes just reach out to hold me. To ease me down.
You said you've dreamed of me recently. Not searching for meaning or significance, but relishes in the memories of lips wiping lips, hands smearing hands, bodies gliding on top of bodies. Ah, but is it even me? With my coarse flesh hiding dented bones of caved in faces and teeth. There is nothing to remember, my dear. Age seems to stretch me longer and wider. My feet sink deeper in the ground. The last time you saw me you mentioned that now I look like a man, and I will warn you, darling, I'm only the shell of it.
The shell of it. We would certainly laugh at the cliches. It's far more amusing than the riddles, I suppose.
