The narrative stretch (Short piece)

I love the way he says my name, it rolls off his tongue like a soft wet kiss, I am his ocean, as we dance divine, all the answers to the questions I seek unravel, he is my cocktail, I am his hourglass, and in the midst of this chaos we are nothing more than naked people. No more two left feet, where the whole world is a compass. How do you like your scrambled eggs, I say in my head? How do you like your pancakes? What's your favorite movie, the one where if you really need to use the toilet, you'd pinch your hips just that much longer, bite your lips that much tighter, for one more scene, then you sigh, and everything peels like an orange, relax ed in the chorus of all your emotional messes. I read the psalms a few times, I'd say to him, I have naughty eyes, but I'm a good girl I promise. At that he'd tell me about something unfinished of which he's practicing on. I hate things unfinished, loose threads, yet somehow I yearn to fix everything broken and in between. Maybe it's the choirs curse of the books you read, and the films you see, or when your tomboyish and shovel your hands so deep in your pocket ready for an ant march. You just have to look at him once. His eyes, maltesers, and then he smiles and says in that organised voice, that does something to your jelly body, " how can I help you to day? Can I help you with anything else." then the brain freezes, eyes search desperately for the exit, and in side your relieved. Because your walking out, and hopefully it's something outsiders can't even see.  Such as the Shadow that has already left you, or the pocket full of useful words, you'll pat politely, because comment t'apetu? These feelings are not for the English verb. They are for people who walk on mental tip toe. For it is a secret, as nervous people own them.


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