Friday, August 07, 2009


him: He never quite knew what to do with her fingers.
They were tapping, now, on the edge of the table, as she picked out a meal.
He just sat there, transfixed, both by their delicate rhythm, and the silence. Always the silence. It had grown harder, recently; the pauses between their syllables more marked, the barbs at the ends of their sentences more pointed.
And he wondered why it was that they traveled in such tightly contracting circles, as if love collapsed, like graceless, lifeless equations, simplified to a single point.
'No distress'" she said. 'Not this time.'
So he put his fingers away, and stared at the coffee.
her: Some day.
When no one is watching
I'm going to steal you, and put you away.
So I can be the only possessor of your stories.
him: That's kind of you.
her: I will put my ear to your mind, and let the transmission begin.
And only stop when rocks turn to glass.


Dreaminglass said...

I wish he'd find the rhythm in this silence.

Marina said...

Beautiful writing.

Gigi said...

Nice Post.