the story of the children, not of the witches who lived, but of those who were burned. their revenge continues on. the flame held by the cracked torch passes along the steps of a downward staircase; with a fire that holds the history of death, it...
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"Hold my hand... please."
There is presence beyond this room we live in, movement within the passing of wavelengths when souls touch; easily, an observation of human nature can teach the value of touch.
Beyond simple movement, beyond a distant brush of hands passing each other in a crowded room, beyond fingers dancing along a spine, beyond cold feet tangled against blankets and cold feet. Watch, the desperately yearned for, and those who moan at their cravings, as words slither around their necks like a noose, and choke- ever so gently.
Watch their arm as they stay in the same pose, reaching, Desperation seeks the desperate, reaching out for something to stay afloat on. Ignorant to the difference between pain and pleasure, kissing and slithering. The adrenaline rush comes with the letters breathed against skin, as lips drip countless names. There is an intimacy that extends far beyond what breaths can steal, so far, that spoken words are meaningless against the language of hands. But that is not here.
Here, echoing, conversations always last distinctly on their own, the intimacy of connection outlasting even death; we speak, with our hands, our voice, our lips between teeth.
To the desperate,
the sliver of words whisper kisses to deprived ears, gods breathe out salvation to the thirsty in three syllables, then tastelessness subsides desperation. Words you can't taste on their tongues but felt with ears. God's may look like love, but when your lips press against an angel's the difference is perceivable-
Watch- (& remember how we touch goes beyond what we do with hands and mouths)
1. (it's hard to breathe, each pull of air is a pull towards death) he whispers
kiss.
2. (his lover turns over to face him) the angel whispers back:
"that one? it has always been one of my favorite words, for what can come close in similarity to the connection between lovers? no word as powerful as that one, i think, no term more passionate, more poetic than that utterance of letters. a mere four letters and the threads of me are undone. you know how i long to have that word become a breath between lips rather than an action that burns the thoughts i pine over."
3. (he ignores the last part, thinks: I don't want this to be the last time we touch)
"i love the way you speak."
4. (the angel refutes his cowardice) demanding
"answer me."
5. (with an over-dramatic sarcasm) he replies:
"oh, how he has too, his lips are burning with temporary insanity; just over a distance of the scattered bodies, aren't homes near graveyards just as ironic as my heart in your hands?"
6. (he hesitates, the angel leans forward and hovers over his lips, a hair's breadth away )
7. (now the angel hesitates) murmurs
"yet you love me still, yes?"
8. (in spite of himself, he smiles)
"it is a burden I bear."
9. (at ease)
"until when?"
10. (a pause grows at the rise tension, death hovers over his face and an angel lays at his side)
"until when? until..."
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