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Tuesday, 01 August 2006
Moving out.
Stripped rooms, bare as a back in which we comfortably lie prone. Things are changing for the two of us, worlds are slowly turning in upon themselves. Inevitably, our waters rise as growing tensions, tidal arguments are measured out upon calendered charts. High tide approaches at noon.
Clinging, holding fingers are stiff cold and yet holding you, the last beautiful refuge, warms me to my core. The room is strange and the house is strange, our voices throw in peculiar ways and many times I mistake your voice for my own. Even the silence speaks. When we murmur, we do so out of turn.
Occasional downpours dampen nothing in our street. The anxiety prevails through like the perpetual summer dawn, a sun always pulling up above the horizon but never quite reaching that point of full exposure. I am sorry for your tiredness, everything will settle. I promise this and many other things. Promise making is all I have to hold me secure to people, to hold me fast to you.
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