Egotistically

Because there is no one that could be given unto himself without giving himself to another, is that true?

Can that be the reason why you fall and trip upon your own heels and find cracks in the smooth marble floors? Reflect your every step off the tiles, and try to make it undo itself. Unsay itself, untie itself from something that is neither logical nor conscious.

Because sounds can’t make a difference if they seep through paper and are not held by any fiber that we can weave. That every single word should be able to escape is one of the biggest fears of the human soul. A fear that I hold, cold and very much alive in my hands, every single time that I try to speak and can’t. Every single time that I turn to movement instead, trying to drown the flowing ink itself in the beats of the burning bass. Give yourself unto the empty pen and become the very ink you crave to control, but never knowing what you might demand of yourself to do.

Can I really be all that confused by things unsaid and things undone, or rather overwhelmed by the memories that drip like broken nails one after the other from my mind? Look, the pieces are pouring from my eyes and from my hands, even as I hold you in place, even as I enjoy the taste of your skin and feel the road rushing away beneath me.

I want you to keep me there. To keep me sane, even as you pull away just to come back again. I want your hands and your bleeding silence to be the patience I must have. To wake up in your kitchen and look at the sunlight pouring into the empty beer cans, and take them with us, like forbidden souvenirs of a too expensive shop.

The selfish side of me is loving this.