Language Intangible
To her my writing is “dark poetry.” What it is, really, is the expression of my imagination in sounds and words. She inspires me now to write. Inspiration is the power she holds over me. Imagination today is the unfulfilled anticipation of our first kiss. She does nothing, yet pushes me verbose.
Still, and for the longest time, we aren’t able to meet face to face. Forced to reckon with technology, we communicate by our surrogate monotone unemphatic thumb-keyboard voices, in abbreviated exes and ohs, as if we trust the effort will manifest the mutual desires of our flesh. To converse, all options are available but the one we desire most: language of the body. Lips to skin. Breaths to ear. Touch to heat. The physical arousal of passion.
Frustration stemming from unforgiving logistics creates tense longing. Silence is nervous. With the toe of our cliche cold feet, we sample the temperament of the mood, fearing not the meeting, but the not meeting.
What do I write now? Above is complete. I could write the hopeful reality of future experiences, but not more than wishes and what-ifs. I once said, “this one I will not allow to vanish.” My success is tenuous. Wavering doubt permeates and infiltrates anticipatory emotions tied to the efforts exerted within circumstances. Again, silence is nervous. Once already canceled, other looming conflicts of intentions surface. Unfair. Please, please allow fruition.
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/// © Master Zoomer
/// “Language Intangible”
/// March, 2011
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