Writing Skin petits rêves de coma

little coma dreams

You told my best friend once that I was the receptacle for all of your unwanted feelings - the ultimate substitute - one that wouldn’t injure you or break your insides with rejection because I was ethereal, immaterial, unplaced. I say things better than you - words trill in my bones and muscles, only weak moment-shakes of unidentifiable feeling erupt from yours.

If I thought I was a core piece, a blank slate, a little wedge, a touched and held heart then, I do not think so now.

The skyscraping-est disappointment of my life was just waved. For your fingers have done more hurt when they caressed than when they pulled away.

If this is the end of the world (thank god) I have a thing to say: that pastel blue spring, that old grey stone, hand painted blossom dance amid resounding peals from the cathedral bells. That afternoon in light-warmth, bare knees and hands chapped by voice-wind, where he looked at me - that was a little high-rise, a little stage-fright ambulance from the corners of the other world, where the other me, love-bound in you, could have had him, could have unloved him too.

Like I unloved you.