Senses Fail

“Who touches the body, however fleetingly, also touches the soul”

This is not the first time that I am humbling myself. Belittling it is a habit. And I do not believe that writing is an egoistic behavior. Writing is simply that affirmation of one’s humanity and literacy. I think that my celebration of women is caused this deprecation. By observing that I was surrounded by fairness, I had made a comparison and implied the subsistence of hideousness: they encompassed me, I endured. I remember, bleep was the comeliest and most resolute of the eleven ladies during that night of partying and being wild. She wore a river atop her head, a river beheld at the verge of dusk, yet a murkiness that would glisten in the day. Her eyes were not a woman’s, for the transcended femininity – they were eclipses of twin suns. Her voice rolled with the streaming of her hair, and she had fingers that were the fragrance of grapes – deliberately, I had let myself be cut, because I desired the orchards of her mouth and skin.

“With those words, I felt the piece of the fruit tossing about in my stomach, wanting to be reunited with the rest inside of her. I lied my eyes slowly to hers, knowing that the longing cannot be satisfied.”

The eclipses have ended. She stood up and lifted the suitcases. Her voice stopped flowing. And for the first time in my life, I heard good – bye as the sound of a closing door.