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Euphoria
Andrew Bertaina |
What is sweeter than honey? And stronger than a lion? We are raised in a web of deceit. I have watched her, from all angles, all sides, I have seen her stretch vainly, the summer dress clinging to her and light attach itself to her. I have capsized, and grown smaller each day, in the raging torrent of her eyes. Love, like a small thorn starting from your thumb and pressing down towards your heart. I keep a picture of her, locked away in a cabinet drawer. Waiting from the beginning, for the end which is my own. When we are newly raised to the world, lungs full of fitful crying, we are looked upon as the future. In the end, we lie down with the dead, to hear what they are saying. The language of the living has died for us, it has taken up residence, outside of our spectrum. We are blindly caught in it's web, waiting to be devoured. My insides have been emptied, drained by her liquid smile. The sharpness of her teeth, when she clinks them softly against a wine glass. I wait here, in the emptiness between myself and the living, I wait. She has said too little, or perhaps I have gone too far. So I need to go back, to the beginning. To the wailing lungs of that first breath, when life came back to me. Where I was snatched from the grave I had been lying down in, afraid of what the dead were saying, that I could not translate. She was like the liquid moonlight, beaming down upon the vast waters of my emptiness, filling me with a riddle. If tonight is our end, my end, my beginning, the beginning, I must start there. So let's depart from the cold lamplight, the burned out candles, and the attenuated tones of violins, the sunflowers sitting gracefully in a vase. The windows that peep out over the torpid river, which seeps slowly by unconcerned with the things of men. If ever I have loved, let me tell you the story so that you can judge for yourself. Tonight, be the judge of my own end, as I sit here with the drapes pulled, waiting expectantly for her slightly crooked smile, soft red lips, her black pants that hug her hips. She has become like a vision that has ensnared me in my own weakness, how terrible I can be, or how wonderful.
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