October 09, 2008
long overdue, from italy;
He pauses before the gate arches, suddenly conscious of the surrounding silence. In his right hand he holds a solitary flower, bent and unflinching against the mercilessly bitter cold of the wind. He closes his eyes for a moment, as if to hide the distance between them and the memory of a presence, but it is almost often never close at all. He steps through the gate, a momentous step of anticipation and acceptance, then shuffles up the driveway. His hands are tucked deep into his pockets, he attempts a studiedly casual posture. He sees them now, butterflies fluttering merrily about with an exuberant gaiety. They move in circles, spinning in circles, spinning in a never-ending carousel. He is, he always has been, the boy with no name, anonymous face half-hidden in the shadows, watching the chantreuse slide liquidly past. She is, she always has been, all charm - suite and light, nothing left over for him.
He kneels and places the solitary flower just above a name, a name that taints his lips for night after night when he goes to sleep. And then he wakes, mouth dry and heart hammering, reaching for something not there. The white of the rose is purer than the white of the snow gathering lightly on his shoulders -
Inside the high-domed cathedral, someone else catches a bouquet, celebrates a perfect union -
There is no death and transfiguration, only the certainty of a perfect darkness, a truce out of boundaries where nothing but the lines matter.
He pauses before the gate arches, suddenly conscious of the surrounding silence. In his right hand he holds a solitary flower, bent and unflinching against the mercilessly bitter cold of the wind. He closes his eyes for a moment, as if to hide the distance between them and the memory of a presence, but it is almost often never close at all. He steps through the gate, a momentous step of anticipation and acceptance, then shuffles up the driveway. His hands are tucked deep into his pockets, he attempts a studiedly casual posture. He sees them now, butterflies fluttering merrily about with an exuberant gaiety. They move in circles, spinning in circles, spinning in a never-ending carousel. He is, he always has been, the boy with no name, anonymous face half-hidden in the shadows, watching the chantreuse slide liquidly past. She is, she always has been, all charm - suite and light, nothing left over for him.
He kneels and places the solitary flower just above a name, a name that taints his lips for night after night when he goes to sleep. And then he wakes, mouth dry and heart hammering, reaching for something not there. The white of the rose is purer than the white of the snow gathering lightly on his shoulders -
Inside the high-domed cathedral, someone else catches a bouquet, celebrates a perfect union -
There is no death and transfiguration, only the certainty of a perfect darkness, a truce out of boundaries where nothing but the lines matter.