Conduit
05-17-06, 12:07 AM
We thought about it for a while.
The sun and I.
She faced me. I was 17, sitting on a ledge, looking over at the horizon, swinging my legs and tossing brittle leaves and bark out into the pools of light that collected underneath us. There wasn't much to talk about then, what with me being 17; and Brooklyn, for the most part, had pulled all sorts of conversation out of me. So we kissed. Quickly, discretely, the sun, and I. I feel, now, as though it happened with some frequency -- I seem to recall, from some skewed point of view, seeing myself sitting in front of her, too ashamed to stare, too frightened of myself to reveal my eyes to anyone at all, except, of course, Brooklyn, whose relationship with the sun tore me to shreds. I cried about it often. I would always push toward her, and she would never have me.
And so we would fight -- Brooklyn and I -- and, unbeknownst to the sun, I would never win. But I would seek refuge on that ledge, a few hearts away from Brooklyn, and swallow fire for as long as I could, for as long as my throat would have it, until waves of flame, ringed and hued, autumn, would leave my mouth and stiffen my neck.
The last time I visited, she knew herself. There was a dawn, inverted, and a thunderous rip, and me, lost, thrown, indiscriminately, into Brooklyn, and we have been fighting ever since. We have been fighting ever since.
The sun and I.
She faced me. I was 17, sitting on a ledge, looking over at the horizon, swinging my legs and tossing brittle leaves and bark out into the pools of light that collected underneath us. There wasn't much to talk about then, what with me being 17; and Brooklyn, for the most part, had pulled all sorts of conversation out of me. So we kissed. Quickly, discretely, the sun, and I. I feel, now, as though it happened with some frequency -- I seem to recall, from some skewed point of view, seeing myself sitting in front of her, too ashamed to stare, too frightened of myself to reveal my eyes to anyone at all, except, of course, Brooklyn, whose relationship with the sun tore me to shreds. I cried about it often. I would always push toward her, and she would never have me.
And so we would fight -- Brooklyn and I -- and, unbeknownst to the sun, I would never win. But I would seek refuge on that ledge, a few hearts away from Brooklyn, and swallow fire for as long as I could, for as long as my throat would have it, until waves of flame, ringed and hued, autumn, would leave my mouth and stiffen my neck.
The last time I visited, she knew herself. There was a dawn, inverted, and a thunderous rip, and me, lost, thrown, indiscriminately, into Brooklyn, and we have been fighting ever since. We have been fighting ever since.