Very much just another blog

You are here to find myself

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Through this door, on cold wooden planks, you see her.

You could still turn back: leave; undo the steps that brought you here. But you are watching her body twisted away from you, imagining the climb over her. Above her you will wait, let your breath fall in step.

She turns to look at you from where she lies, untwists her body towards you as you walk  into the room, and stop with your feet pressing against her ribs.

You came for the core of her; the centre that will make sense if you taste it. She will let you be who you can be, won’t she.

You kneel beside her and slide your hand underneath her shirt, rest your hand on her belly, your fingers over the curve of her hip.

I didn’t think you would come.

I nearly didn’t.

No one will know.

That’s not the point.

What is the point?

You move your hand up and between her breasts. Beneath your palm her heart beats and whirs, back and forth like a compass that can’t find its point but whirs on; searches for north.

I wanted to see you.

For a while there is silence and then she looks at you: if it isn’t joy, it is desperation; some urgent need because she, like you, is now bound by the chance that in this room, in this meeting, something will change. The parts are connected, now it can begin.

She undoes the buttons of her shirt and you lean down towards her. With your lips brushing her skin, you begin to speak quietly: a poem you know she knows but has not felt as closely as you can deliver it. In the giving of it you can become yourself. In the transference of word to body you can become who you are. She arches towards you as you commit your poem to her skin.

You recite over her lips, into her mouth; you speak in a line across her throat; you whisper over her breasts and in a line down her stomach and now she is reciting in time with you. Where you stop for breath, her voice fills the space, but against your lips, her skin is cooling.

You’re cold.

I know.

This is what you came for. This and this alone. You rest your cheek against her thigh and whisper the final verse into her as she falls asleep. You are left in the darkness, the sound of a compass pulsing into you.

When you wake you are alone; you blink to focus along the line of the wooden boards and there are words marked that weren’t there before. It is the poem as you told it. The poem you started and gave to her, is scratched word for word along the straights of the floor.

She has taken your coat. You walk cold into the morning. It’s raining hard and you are soaked in seconds. You watch as the drops bounce up from the sodden ground like fireworks at your knees.


Through this door, on cold wooden planks, you see him.

This is the place you return to; this room with a floor on which to write. Each time you leave it covered; each time you return to a clear space where you begin again. This time your story will be punctuated by the man who lies sleeping across it, but that’s ok; you just didn’t know for sure he’d be here: hoped, as you approached and alternately, that he would or wouldn’t have made it this far.

You roll your pen back and forth in your hand, walk towards him and stand astride his chest. It is only in this room that you know him. It is only here, as you look down, that you can imagine how he is made.

You kneel close and, with your face against to his, listen for his breath. He won’t wake; he is here to dream, and you need him to be still to give shape to the story you will write.

You remove your shoes and begin. You write in long times from one side of the room to the other – to the edge of him, over him and on across the floor, back and forth: floor; body; heart; flesh; floor.

When the words end, or the space does, you walk over them in bare feet, and lie down over his sleeping body. He moves for the first time, wraps you inside his arms and close into his warm body. Your heart is whirring out of time.

When you wake you are alone. He has left his coat to cover you and his footprints have smudged a line in your words between your body and the door.


Written by elikafm

February 22, 2010 at 10:35 am

Posted in Uncategorized

One Response

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  1. Beautiful.


    March 3, 2010 at 4:44 pm

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