Delilah had never been her name, and patience would never be her virtue. She had scrambled like spilt marbles for any trace of breath pervading her presence but was met only with frantic usherings of her own arteries, and a shattering absence of peace in the silence ringing out around her legs, and arms, and ribs, coccooning her shoulders until only the fetted sweetness of past beauty lingered,
uninterruptible by her own flickering hands.
Delilah turned to the cold side of the bed, wiped the dust from the sheets and pondered the irony of her misgivings, whilst her fingertips studied the imprint of his shoulder blades.
Where is he now? In some foreign land, adorned with foreign hands, but he would be alien always, to her and any other blips on the horizon.
On good days understatement would engulf her in some bathetic parade, and she would watch the sailor boys pass the pier through the tear of old light in her blinds.
She would stray out to toe the water but it was never so pretty in the dark, and as the seamen left, the biding silencing would not be drowned. She could never understand their murmurings,
of cigarettes and candle wicks, and all things fading.
When she thought of him she felt her skin stand ready to dissolve and detach,
and when he thought of her (as she knew he never would) she made it so that his must too, so they would go together as they had never come.
And he would say to her, ‘where have you been’, and she would breathe him deeply (as she was wont to do), inhale him through for all of his poetry and his pestilence and reply, (as when it was true)
that ‘I am all here.’
Created: Jul 17, 2010Document Media