2006-06-10
Red Sheets
I used to love the manner in which he wrote. It reminded me of nothing at all, of everything, of simplicity and elegance, of things only he could describe. His mysterious style gave way to my interest; drew me in and locked me in a cage of paper and ink. The anonymousity of his voice lent his story some kind of magical charm, of the immoral sort, no doubt. Nevertheless, it ignited an insatiable hunger for more.
The whisper of perfume on her pillow
Tells a fable of champagne and wine.
Her dark, tangled hair
Leaves you vacant
And bare
While your sleeping on her red sheets at night.
I recall descrying the tableau in a play flashing in his pupils, as well as the effigy of a man I had never before encountered, but all at once recognized with sheer reminiscence; dazzling cobalt irises threatening to incinerate my soul with the brilliance of ten thousand flames; flaxen curls just long enough to pull back with a leather cord.
What was it this shaman of mine was attempting to communicate with one simple song? A past affair? No, this man seared in my lover's memory was no paramour, though some portion of my former self distinctly remembered the sensation of his bare skin next to mine... in a hallucination or vagary, perhaps?
No, he had not been an inamorato. He was someone long forgotten but recently renewed in a series of disturbing retrospects. And then I pondered; how could I conceivably distinguish such a myriad of images through a single verse? And in such a meager length of time? Heaven only knows.
Repeatedly, I watched the vision of him deliberately prance with a mischievous air before me; his taunting a dare directed at my sanity. My vision whispered, "The kiss! The kiss!" but I did not recognize its meaning. All I managed to revive was two tiny fang teeth and soft--but unbearably cold--lips the color of vermillion, as well as an unfurnished room.
When unanticipatedly, there I was. The target of this haunting song, watching something of a play, again, the tableau stationary and partially lifeless in front of me. He lay there on the barren, damaged wooden floor; scarlet sheets clinging desperately to him just below his hips; sapphire eyes wide and unclosed. A woman in her twenties slept beside him; her back turn towards him; stomach constricted by the sheets, but still expanding and shrinking with breath, however shallowly. Through her lips passed a quiescent moan; sex had been his gift to this fragile, ethereal butterfly--just once, without pay...
What was it about this scene that struck a chord? That man; I had known him once, and apparently so had my singer of songs, bacause he smiled with a familiar glitter in his eye, one that meant, "I know what you've done, little girl, and I won't forgive you for it."
graffitihart at 10:20 a.m.