Geography For The Blind And Mad
It seemed so simple:
the wooden jetty became a supernova
suspended deliciously in unexplored space,
my neck arched
my feet falling
into galaxies below
as we rocketed upwards
into the sea.
The wind blew softly
against an untouched place
behind my ears
as we breathed in the luminance
of a city skyline
from a parallel universe.
We both agreed that nothing looked the same.
Giant rounded landmarks,
planate, elongated, grown further away
and with them the world that we knew:
the reality keeping the stars
from the sea, keeping
your breath
from my lips.
Floating in space, reversing
gravity, trying to tame
the phenomenal
pretending
the art that drew us together
when combined with sun-warmed rock
against my belly, and
a smile I thought I saw through
half-closed eyes, before
I forced my heart to
look away.
I know why we’re here,
propelled in parallel
delight beneath a prussian cloud
of sea, the stars
a short descent through
gravity, my sense
crashing wildly against
the rocks:
it’s almost like kissing, you see.
And then, later on, I looked on stunned
as you trapped the air in my lungs.
A light show of your bravery
fell upwards from the salty vapour
of soft sensations, as brutal as the smash of blood
and bone against wet sandstone.
Just like that
you felt yourself crumble
in my wet, outstretched palm,
as I stroked you softly
and suffocated you
in my fist.
I flicked
my slender wrist
and threw you into
the upright milky way:
reality returned to us,
a garish fluorescence
in an empty
solitary
silence.
You blinked and winced,
perhaps to push back tears.
You didn’t,
you couldn’t hear it:
the wild beat of my pulse
screaming between screaming breasts
or the absence you left
when you cast your eyes
away.
You didn’t,
you couldn’t see it:
the boomerang of words (your words)
that flew from my grasp
and through the damned,
impenetrable space
of my inadequacy
to rise (returned)
in my soul,
a thousand imagined moments I cannot reach for
wanting:
the touch of your hair as it falls against
my cheek, your palm against
the heat of my neck, or kneaded
(needed) in between my fingers
as I nuzzle into
the geography of you,
without a map nor plan, nor the tiniest
hope or misconstrued belief
of navigating my way through
and out unscathed, the same person
I went in.
Authors note: This poem was written by a 21 year old version of me, who liked to fall in love on lighthouses, staring upside down into the oceanic firmament below and galaxy of ocean above, with beautiful, creative, sensitive beings, full of emotion, mystery and magic, reflecting my own unfolding….
Of course, none of that interests me in the slightest anymore….