The body keeps us artificially indistinct. For a moment I forget that I am not you. Beginning with the way the eyes upon you change your skin. I watch your skin, the liquid in your eyes, the softness you allow around you. I follow my own limbs, your limbs, the motion as you flex and keepsake how intention melds with what is felt and seen. A field of mercy spontaneously appears. I resist the urge to sever history from what appears to mean the quiet and revealing now.
Portrait
She was unconsciously beautiful. Most people thought she was from Boston or possibly New York, but she hailed from a micro-village in the West. Her mind shimmered with elegant intelligence who considered herself no different from anybody else. When cousins visited, her speech descended into common folk inflections. It is possible she could not tell how naturally she adapted to a past decidedly unlike her present tense. She had the capacity to sit and chat about pale things for hours, as she had grown up accommodating others' ways. Her beauty seemed out of place in that tiny burg she spoke about. She declared her home town factual; friends went along with the story. She seemed able to keep up with or outpace the geniuses she met. And geniuses wanted other geniuses to know her. She was a scenic thinker's thinker. She trailed no one, and she did so colorfully.
Comments
Post a Comment