Prose,  Written literature | Author's writings

The best of me for the worst of you

I’m shaking too much these days. I can barely light this cigarette without burning my fingers. Maybe it’s alcohol or memory that weighs on my soul like a pile of lead that stretches the flesh around my bones to my toes.
I look into the stars and constellations, fusing the stories of my delusions, or perhaps laughter, into the dotted contours and folds of my divided personalities. I’m a weak man, which only says I’m human, no emotional strength in me, just a naked and vulgar attempt to grab the powers of what we all fear most, our urges to scream while our veins explode and fill with fear. I stand on spiders because I’m scared of them – and you put a glass over them and release them because you’re scared too so same fear, but different context into which we frame it.
Your little black dress drove me crazy. Ever wondered what happened to it? Me too, I didn’t burn it as I intended. It evaporates only to re-create elsewhere, the colors faded and captured by the autumn breeze, it fell out of my desperate hands and remained at the bottom. That dress, those eyes, that smile, that mind. The endless buzz of impenetrable clock hands and gear wheel, like a pocket watch.
All I could be – corporal and mortal. All you could be – my all.
I’m still shivering or just shaking, or maybe my body is rejecting the memory, letting it keep going, like a wet dog who doesn’t know where to go.
But my story is over. Yours is just getting started.

You made me cry.
The wings spreading across the sea, the wheels of the cars moving along these paths have lights that can compare to the stars in the distance.
Now I have new dresses. I wear them when I drink and dance and laugh at something someone said. The magazines are right about the little black dresses. I can almost hear the clock hands and gear wheel behind their hungry eyes, to take the dress off, so I laugh a lot on days like these.
You talk about weakness. I’ll tell you what it is.
A weakness is a phone that rings when no one can hear it.
A rust-covered mind shaking hands with you, when the body moves among cardboard props, which is a mystery to this person in the mirror. Eyes wide open, these walls know each other, and that person inside them is a stranger, attacks, heats the room, denies breath. The hand holds the phone, quasi-real. At least the idea is almost tangible – the figures are the smallest grammar unit in this type of communication, and you don’t even have to remember them because this device claims to have a better memory than anyone.
Weakness is a phone that rings for hours, and no one can hear it – where are you then, weaknesses? You suck the air out of my lungs and then hold it in yours when we kiss, give it back to me, bring me your voice, your skin, to touch it, it must be real, or nothing is. But can you?
The face is melting in hands that are exhausted and wet. That water at the tips of the fingers tastes like the sea, and where were you? Where was your voice, the smell of the house? Where did you laugh at something someone said?
You made me cry.
I swear you would pay for it.
As I was turning into a small light shattered by flashes across the sky, you did not look at the stars. You opened the package I left at your door, a gift that was final, reading a note that says: “talk to this instead to me.
Now I know my hands, and they are stable while holding a glass. One cigarette dies and the other lights – even cigarettes can look like stars in the distance. Now I have new dresses, drink, dance, laugh at something someone said when I was wearing them. But sometimes I dream of us deep in the orange forest, so no kiss is as scary as yours, nobody as warm as yours, and I don’t have a single song the way I had with you, singing out of tune to make you laugh.
Memory is a weakness, and I’ll light it one of these days, the way you burned my dress, only wait, you’ll see.
You burned it, didn’t you? Unless that “evaporates to be re-created elsewhere,” your poetry to say you gave it to someone else.
Take a deep breath, please, exhale and despise me, don’t be scared when the darkness wraps around your ankles, and remember me. Then maybe I’ll get my song back.
I could also end this with “with love” – but I would rather sprain my arm.

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