20120709 the things you say part 9

20120709 the things you say part 9


I asked you to collect a slip of paper for me, it promised the bearer. You didn't answer. How could you? Such a forbidden act.

I arrive at the middle of an endless hallway. From this vantage point I can see you, away, away, far far along. A huddle of talking. I walk the cat walk. Slowly, trying to keep eyes foot bound until the last moment whilst still drinking you in drinking you in. That rush of excitement marred by anxiety. Will he stay, go, care. Will he care. I, gaze downward, see you folding and turning, twisting, shaping, considering, a sheet of paper. It is written on. Found. Clasped by your extended hand in an absent gesture, an 'I cannot be still' gesture. If our eyes meet now I will have thirty, forty paces in which to maintain my tread, to place one foot in front of another without listing hopelessly, un controllable to one side, I will have to stick on a smile of greeting that will look fixed, crazy, the frozen face of a dead thing. I am not that. I am pulsing and punching with light, with life, with love, with lust, with the need to consume you. To stare at your fingers, lean fingers, shaping, making in spite of themselves. The hands of a man that are making. What can be more delicious, delightful, wonderful, filling, so filling. Make it for me, I think, as I examine still my shoe. Stout shoe. Fool's shoe. It is done. Endless time in endless hallway has moved me towards you, ten paces, I can look up, appear startled, unknowing, smile sweetly, nod greeting. Stop. Smile on. Wait for a gap in the chatter as I swoon at your hands at your bony long cold fingers. Jack Frost. How they fold, measure.

Esoteric, I say, I think you have an envelope for me? You say, aloud, in public, oh yes, here it is. You hand it to me. White. A5. Pedestrian. Looped large on its front, in a hand, your hand? loping strong letters shout my name. Bold. Strong. Present. A shout. Really. I smile, again, thank you and hug that vessel in my own minds eye to my heart, as I slide it, ordinary, into my bag.

There is talking. The rhythm of the conversation is not in my tune. I cannot sniff out the undertow. Something is in there. You say, there were voices in the head discussed in public and learning to listen to the voices was a good way to progress. Move forward. I missed it. I will find it, it will be somewhere, data, and I can listen to it and think of you. Want, in the listening, the chance to look over and smile, acknowledge a word, a sentence, laugh even, although voices could be hard to laugh to.

The faltering, haltering, stuttering chatter comes to an appropriate end. There is nowhere else for you to go now, but away. To stay would be odd, out of character, implausible. We say something, a quick connect, a burst and you turn to walk away. I watch you, unabashed, brazen now, as you stride, purposeful, elsewhere. At a point, thirty paces hence, you unfurl fingers and launch a perfectly formed and balanced paper aeroplane skyward. I am open mouthed. Entranced. Focused. As you stride on, I walk with quick steps, travelling pace upon pace at such pace. I reach up my hand, snap, I catch you.