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Description
When I wake up, I realize, through eyes still grazed by Morpheus, the reason I am shivering. Slanted and broken venetian blinds belay the cracked window underneath, still open quite a ways, letting in the foul stench of early morning city air. A car alarm continues to ring from some far street corner, and the hazy light pours down like diagonal knives, revealing ambulatory traces of dust before slicing its way delicately across the bed.
The sheets are disheveled, looped, twisted, entangling you and me. You lay, sprawled sideways, indifferent, heavy breath, knives of slanted light slicing straight through you, neat incisions across sheets of ever-diminishing thread-count.
Do I even know you anymore? I know you can't cook, and have a blood-thirsty and sadistic parakeet with a predilection towards human skin. I know that you always sleep through all of the important things. I know that I barely know you, in any real sense of the word. It's only been 4 days.
Your mother is in the other room, drunk in the way that hidden alcoholics are, almost undetectable to those how don't know what to look for. Numb. And you're numb too, probably, still lost somewhere within the holds of persistent hypagogia. Outside a dog barks, and the sound carries and reverberates throughout the neighborhood. I concentrate on that, the color of the walls, the way the light falls on all the objects, dimly, casting sharp and well-defined shadows, everything deduced to filmic divisions of noir light, dichotomous gradients of shadow. The hollowness of your eye sockets. The emptiness of your retinas. The void I will stare into when you awaken, empty to the point of singularity, two miniature blackholes etched delicately into solar systems of green.
But for now we remain, alluvial straits. The television still pours blank-static light. The walls flicker.
Eventually, I will remember this place in terms of what I left behind. That watch. That necklace I made. A jacket hastily strewn on the bedroom floor. Or, more intangibly, every shallow breath taken, every glance given, every word spoken. Within these blue walls, every action becomes sacrosanct. Outside of them, they become forgotten. These walls hold memory, delicately, neatly, perfectly. These walls are a fortress for every thought, every action. Consequence does not leave them.
I slide delicately off of the bed, untangling myself from the sheets, and set my feet upon wooden flooring that creaks. I follow the dust in the corners towards your door, which opens out slowly onto the unsettling silence of your living room.
There are so many echoes here. Picture frames hang crooked. Empty bottles line the kitchen. A screen door leads to the outside and the halflight, partially ajar, swinging lazily, conjuring notions of hylozoism. It is silent, and the couch sits abandoned, but I can still make out the subtle patterns of movement made against it the night prior, as we meandered between each other's limbs. Everything persists, invisible patterns carved into the rising light, summoning memories. Rough palm sliding under denim, elastic, cotton. Your futures pressing delicately against me. Your meandering life line. Your truncated love line. The delicate tracing of patterns, a vague narrative against my thigh. The ways we turned our bodies into kindle, meandering within the open-window geometry of mid-day, breath lending credence to sweat, a constant pattern of rise and collapse.
I breathe the air and return, through dust and wooden floors, creaking doors, to your room, still populated by heavy breaths, submerged under the heavy waves of circadian rhythm. I sit on the floor and stare at the window, the faint knives of light slowly increasing in angle and magnitude as the sun continues its upwards trajectory. Outside, birds contemplate the myriad permutations and arrangements of themselves upon the telephone wires. I glance down at your face, encased in shadow. At the sheets, war-torn and tangled. At the bed, pathways again visible, loops, twists, turns, permutations of us. A bird calls from the outside. Your mother weeps. I lean back against the floor and stare at the ceiling, waiting to forget you. The sun peeks through smog, continuing in upward trajectory, still dim. I count the knives against my skin. I close my eyes momentarily and stare at the inside of my eyelids, hoping that, if I stare there long enough, I will find what I have been looking for. Instead there is only darkness, inky black, and persistence of vision.
Someday you will fade, from relevance, from life. It's already happening. The lamp on the desk is hardly bright enough, and the sun only illuminates fragments of you. I can only see thin slivers of your face, faint impressions of expression, growing layers of shadow. And no matter how hard I try, I can not illuminate you. And nor do I want to. Soon, you'll fade out completely, and you'll only be a vague shadow in the distance, and I'll never be able to reach you again, because the sun will always go down.
It doesn't matter anyways. Because what lingers is not what makes its way past my Ora Serrata, but rather what insinuates its way into the gaps between synaptic noise. It is the room between movements, between eyelids, between windows, between the patterns made against scratchy sheets. It is the room between entangled limbs. There, too, it is dark, quiet. Patterns of light paint their way across the walls and persist momentarily, as feeling.
I close my eyes, erase the room, and sink again into the white-noise ocean of perpetually receding memory. I conjure facsimiles of you. But did I ever know you at all? And what, exactly, ever happened to that room? We both erased ourselves, there, in cold movement of final grasp. And, no matter how many times I conjure you back, you'll never exist again.

Description
When I wake up, I realize, through eyes still grazed by Morpheus, the reason I am shivering. Slanted and broken venetian blinds belay the cracked window underneath, still open quite a ways, letting in the foul stench of early morning city air. A car alarm continues to ring from some far street corner, and the hazy light pours down like diagonal knives, revealing ambulatory traces of dust before slicing its way delicately across the bed.
The sheets are disheveled, looped, twisted, entangling you and me. You lay, sprawled sideways, indifferent, heavy breath, knives of slanted light slicing straight through you, neat incisions across sheets of ever-diminishing thread-count.
Do I even know you anymore? I know you can't cook, and have a blood-thirsty and sadistic parakeet with a predilection towards human skin. I know that you always sleep through all of the important things. I know that I barely know you, in any real sense of the word. It's only been 4 days.
Your mother is in the other room, drunk in the way that hidden alcoholics are, almost undetectable to those how don't know what to look for. Numb. And you're numb too, probably, still lost somewhere within the holds of persistent hypagogia. Outside a dog barks, and the sound carries and reverberates throughout the neighborhood. I concentrate on that, the color of the walls, the way the light falls on all the objects, dimly, casting sharp and well-defined shadows, everything deduced to filmic divisions of noir light, dichotomous gradients of shadow. The hollowness of your eye sockets. The emptiness of your retinas. The void I will stare into when you awaken, empty to the point of singularity, two miniature blackholes etched delicately into solar systems of green.
But for now we remain, alluvial straits. The television still pours blank-static light. The walls flicker.
Eventually, I will remember this place in terms of what I left behind. That watch. That necklace I made. A jacket hastily strewn on the bedroom floor. Or, more intangibly, every shallow breath taken, every glance given, every word spoken. Within these blue walls, every action becomes sacrosanct. Outside of them, they become forgotten. These walls hold memory, delicately, neatly, perfectly. These walls are a fortress for every thought, every action. Consequence does not leave them.
I slide delicately off of the bed, untangling myself from the sheets, and set my feet upon wooden flooring that creaks. I follow the dust in the corners towards your door, which opens out slowly onto the unsettling silence of your living room.
There are so many echoes here. Picture frames hang crooked. Empty bottles line the kitchen. A screen door leads to the outside and the halflight, partially ajar, swinging lazily, conjuring notions of hylozoism. It is silent, and the couch sits abandoned, but I can still make out the subtle patterns of movement made against it the night prior, as we meandered between each other's limbs. Everything persists, invisible patterns carved into the rising light, summoning memories. Rough palm sliding under denim, elastic, cotton. Your futures pressing delicately against me. Your meandering life line. Your truncated love line. The delicate tracing of patterns, a vague narrative against my thigh. The ways we turned our bodies into kindle, meandering within the open-window geometry of mid-day, breath lending credence to sweat, a constant pattern of rise and collapse.
I breathe the air and return, through dust and wooden floors, creaking doors, to your room, still populated by heavy breaths, submerged under the heavy waves of circadian rhythm. I sit on the floor and stare at the window, the faint knives of light slowly increasing in angle and magnitude as the sun continues its upwards trajectory. Outside, birds contemplate the myriad permutations and arrangements of themselves upon the telephone wires. I glance down at your face, encased in shadow. At the sheets, war-torn and tangled. At the bed, pathways again visible, loops, twists, turns, permutations of us. A bird calls from the outside. Your mother weeps. I lean back against the floor and stare at the ceiling, waiting to forget you. The sun peeks through smog, continuing in upward trajectory, still dim. I count the knives against my skin. I close my eyes momentarily and stare at the inside of my eyelids, hoping that, if I stare there long enough, I will find what I have been looking for. Instead there is only darkness, inky black, and persistence of vision.
Someday you will fade, from relevance, from life. It's already happening. The lamp on the desk is hardly bright enough, and the sun only illuminates fragments of you. I can only see thin slivers of your face, faint impressions of expression, growing layers of shadow. And no matter how hard I try, I can not illuminate you. And nor do I want to. Soon, you'll fade out completely, and you'll only be a vague shadow in the distance, and I'll never be able to reach you again, because the sun will always go down.
It doesn't matter anyways. Because what lingers is not what makes its way past my Ora Serrata, but rather what insinuates its way into the gaps between synaptic noise. It is the room between movements, between eyelids, between windows, between the patterns made against scratchy sheets. It is the room between entangled limbs. There, too, it is dark, quiet. Patterns of light paint their way across the walls and persist momentarily, as feeling.
I close my eyes, erase the room, and sink again into the white-noise ocean of perpetually receding memory. I conjure facsimiles of you. But did I ever know you at all? And what, exactly, ever happened to that room? We both erased ourselves, there, in cold movement of final grasp. And, no matter how many times I conjure you back, you'll never exist again.