Wednesday, January 30, 2008


You sit there listening to your Prince collection, and I try really hard to imagine your expression as Raspberry Beret gives way to Kiss. Perhaps, a hint of annoyance, joy or anticipation, even a smile as someone cracks a joke on your computer screen. The white fuzz illuminates your pale face, but I will never see. It's not my right, I would say. Not my destiny, you will reply.

How very cruel of us. It was our fickle minds, not a weak heart or meaningless lines of fate. The mind that lets imagination fly, centuries and miles, defying who we really are. I still see minute moles scattered over the perfect skin of your back. I can trace them silently, your skin twitching under a cold fingertip. I imagine grand constellations broken by the bumps of your spine. A white fuzz illuminates tiny drops racing down my face, but you will never see.