Put You In The Room
She erected herself out of bed, deciding it time to write. Well, she possessed the desireto write, but how could she? The keys on the computer were not completely functioning. Functioning, yes, but complete, no. One specific key below the Question while on top of the Zipper proved defunct. Proof encountered when she left her region of rest, bewildered by the sleepless blunder, her curse for centuries, or so it seemed. “Bedtime.” Would the post office worker deliver the letter some time soon? Would it be the letter she needed to hide the ne’er forgotten lies deep where they belonged? Hidden deep, not the forefront of her mind or life. The room is lightless, she thought. She uttered it for only the ceiling to detect. “This room is lightless.” Yet were those her fingers? It so devoid of light she thought for moments, two or three the most, she could decipher her digits while looking beyond the spectrum, which could be described, “pitch.” “Time to write,” she mouthed. Contorting her body, she extended her top left limb to fumble for the switch to ignite the bulb. Ignition. She squinted out of struggling blindness, both from her illumed surroundings, combined with her 20/200 vision, unlocked by the turning of the switch. Her lips were moist, which never occurred during nighttime sleeplessness, or ever. Prior to this evening, they were shredded, crinkled, set to split, embedded with lines. Before every kiss, petroleum of some form she touched to the protectors of the teeth. She loved him, loved his gentle enveloping of her lips, yet despised the sun stung, wind whipped feeling the kiss left her every time. Why were they so sensitive? But this morning, err, night, err, morning, they were moist. Looking to the region north of her wrist when held upright, yet south of her fingers, she desired the feeling derived from bliss. The five used to grip were extended while fully stretched, the region opened to its furthest extent. The lines of love, conquest, scores yet to come with whistles from time lost just one blessed inch from her mouth, were the object of her eyes’ interest. She slightly puckered her lips, while opening them enough to suckle the welcoming skin. Confirmed. This is the exhibition of loneliness. The emptiness never so powerful, the conjunction of forgotten with discovered. Eyes closed, quivering, this delirium proved to be mesmerizing. Her own lips, moist to the touch, gliding effortlessly on her own skin. She, the unexplored, would not forget herself now or ever. She forgot to remember for too long. Her vision given nothing but the eyelids to consider, she would only welcome herself with two kisses. She longed for more, but two enough to know she could continue on.
The presence on the night piece next to her bed proved necessity if she were to properly focus on the computer screen. In order to type effectively, it would soon come time when her determined focus would be required. She withdrew her lips from her skin, wishing everyone could experience the exquisite turmoil of kissing one’s own flesh, discovering the inner existence. The fidgeting fingers found the required object for sight, so she introduced it to the bridge of her nose, permitting herself opportunity to identify the room. Feet on the floor, she stood up, fully extended, legs lengthened by her tip-toe “get up to write!” pose. Unlike her, the computer content with “sleep” mode, this rendered by the single click of the mouse. She felt compelled to revisit her tortured love story theme, the theme omnipresent in most of her writings. Most? It the theme exclusively present in her writings, but it must be so.
“L rry To Be.” Perfect title. Why not? His mother relinquished him the moniker upon birth, even though his mother’s mother detested it, secretly hoping her only child would coin the son, “Benson,” which she thought to be powerful. Mother, revolted by the prospect, ended discussions promptly. Months before being born, there existed brief discussion involving the unlikelihood mother would refer to her son, “Benson.” Therefore, in the months to come, there proved to be very little overt dispute. This evening, our storyteller’s plight would involve the wounds of hindered emotion. She, the expert in reflecting upon errors in judgment, with interjections of “could be so wonderful, if only for” philosophies, found herself deserted. Only the computer with hindered set of keys present to spell the stifling grief. Tell me once more of the person who showered you with the love you now live without. Tell me once more of the vowel-less torture inflicted upon you.
Bryan May
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