The Silence of My Voice

The goosebumps on his nape had signalled me that he was familiar of my ubiquity in there. I'd witnessed him residing under the same lamp, on the same bulbous and stout pieced wood for years. He had yet another Dan Brown in his hands; his beguiling fingers flirting with the pages still sent spasms through me. It pushed me back to the time when I disintegrated, every vein holding my being liquefying into his. I reeked more of him than me; he reeked more of me than himself.  Trickle by trace, my incandescent breaths over his dank torso, obfuscating my beginning and his end into one. His hands ducking at every curve I curve through, turning me into a corpse of molten flambeau. Never a time when we settled for the two of us being the two. Letting countless mistakes happen, fingers exploring out the closeness of the two being one. Fiery water, boiling ice, spending all of ourselves onto one another. He eyes that pretty across the table. Digging back in his book, resorting to the ...

Away. It is my favourite place to be. Away can sometimes be far enough from your current state, creating differences with it, while even saturating certain gorges. Away can be anywhere, and howsoever far you wish for it to be. It can even be the simple(or complex) expanse of the two verges of your bed, or even as far as the void between rapture and inferno. The more recurrent your stopovers at away, the better. You don't find your aways. You always know it deep down where it actually is, how the map to that place is stretched out. You have yourself at utter disposal there to what the world has got to offer to you. Remote from pandemonium. Such is the power of away that it makes you hallucinate it to be an abyss. An abyss you want to fall prey to, and not because it's enticing. But, because it's beautiful - not in it's own prospect, but the entirety of it. It'll show you only what you can feel. It's distant from the mere grasp of out our delectably fragile paws....