Satisfied

774. round the campfire

They sat the campfire for the longest time before Kyra spoke. Read to us Trev. Let us know not of word but of song. Standing with eyes but for Em, he opened his notebook and began to read. Those that were there said later, perhaps it was the night, perhaps the flicking fire upon his face, but as the words rolled forth, something changed and the Trevor they knew was from that moment, but memory.

from the notebook of Trev, a reading:


The house is quiet but for my thoughts. The sky, grey, and the feeling the same, the world colorless without her. I cannot explain this stark dichotomy. Sledgehammer blunt. All or nothing. Light or dark. And what pounds is a longing within my chest to hold and be held, to again luxuriate in her arms as in a warm bath, for that is how it feels, this peace, of a calmness such that comes after a storm, when the air is clean and crisp and the grass bejeweled of recent rain.

I want to walk in the light of her eyes and to know what it is to be looked upon as she looks, as salve and succor to my pains. And there too is reaching without asking, as two old trees our hands branch toward the other and fingers twine a firm warmth beyond my ability to explain. So I look, and perhaps think upon it too much, for I know it is not the holding or lacing or twining for no other hand would do what her hand does, would reach effortlessly into the heart's uncharted terrain and walk therein so freely, as if home, as if always home it was. No it is not the holding and this is why the eye seems so limited, for how to explain what is seen is not what is witnessed or experienced or known? The tongue seems lost, in retreat of a force known within and this, I say, is how it is, this audible click of a puzzle of two, fitting within as the view without.

How to say how one lives in the other, where thought is synchronized simultaneously and where two hearts beat but one is heard, where to separate is to take what is one and make it two and therein lies the pain as surely as there is pain in the breaking of souls grown together. And breathing changes, for how can it not when the life of one is the life of the other and where there is but one, nothing is as it was, nothing the same, a bleeding I would say, a bleeding out of hue, of color as if the very heart itself in protest or melancholy pumps less.

She is somewhere, this very moment. And her beauty is seen by eyes not my own, the lilt of her voice heard beyond my walls upon ears I know, know not the melody of joy I cannot live without. And I praise fate while cursing the same as every clock an enemy, every tick a reminder that the day once lived is lived never more. So I sigh or more so it seems, something within me sighs and I feel it, my soul. I feel it within me as I have never felt before. And this is where they come, these sighs. And they come like waves upon the thought, of a clock ticking, of her sight unseen, her touch unfelt, her whisper lost on the miles for even a stone's throw is too far as too the hour too short.

I am in the hands of something greater than myself. And there is life in me as if reborn to the world for that is how it is. Nothing looks the same, sounds the same, tastes the same. And all my years are but nothing against this tide of her and I feel as helpless as the shore to resist what is coming.

773. of nothing I have known

She runs in my veins. Intoxicates me. Alters perception. And time is of nothing I have known, when she is around. I know this by fact and absence, like one knows day by night and night by day. Every sense of her plays a dance on my neurons, my brain afire of sight and sound, smell and touch such that now, I say even now, just the thought is all to stir my chemical high, to touch the chemistry in me with nary pin nor needle. This is how she moves, how she plays with my soul as the wind through the trees and like ice it is when she leaves and I shutter and shake in withdrawal, the sense so strong as to be matters of report, of chills so violent no fire can warm what she alone has touched. I am beyond return and what has been healed can heal no more. I live with ache full sore, of muscle rope tight in gale and the billow of canvas screaming in strain of horizon, of light, of the moment she returns to fill again my veins with her sweet poison.

found in Trev's notebook

date unknown

772. the page

Later that night and unable to sleep, Yul found Trev on the porch. Tell me how it is she asked. He looked at her for awhile and then begin to write. Upon finishing, he handed her the page. She read, then wept. Although they sat till morn, nothing more was said between them.

The page:

How to say it. The sound of her breathing has ruined music for me. Nothing sounds of heaven as her rising chest. And what before, is now but earthbound dust. This is how it is when I say everything has changed. And if I were to say of her, opium, neither this nor that could I deny how the very blood of me courses through the narrows of her touch. And the fit of curve on curve is as canyon to river, of one from the other, each as to the other as light to day and star to night for what am I without her. Nothing. Nothing without her. So when I say she is the very breath within my lungs, the light greening my leaves, and her kisses, so hummingbird like in the giving and taking, so delicate as to make her very eyes appear as dream, then this and only this I say is how it is, for the act itself is untranslatable.

771. natural ease

You guys sit an awful lot, but I see no talking, sometimes no touching. What the hellocks is that? asked Rog.

Not sure how to explain it, said Trev. In a word, breathing. We sit with the natural ease of breathing.

Breathing? You two just sit and breathe? Is that it?

Trev sighed. Yes and no. When we are together, when we sit side by side, it just is, it just happens, and it is like the breath, the very essence of life and there is no need, no desire, and certainly no thought of adding anything to what is already complete.

You know what I think. I think you're full of bullshite.

Trev smiled. I wasn't finished.

Well, by all means, continue.

Ease such there is no need to tell of it, to profane it with translation.

_______

So what did Trev say, asked Yul.

Nothing, replied Rog.

So all that talking I saw was nothing?

Yep.

Really?

Nothing but gibberish. I think the boy is on drugs.

Yul says something under her breath.

What did you say?

I said I'd like to be on that drug.

Rog just stared. Yul stared back. Dinner was quiet, but not nearly as quiet as the night.

and too

Don't bring me art
It's too painful
the beauty
the truth

of a place
within

buried
as
seed

for to know it
is to know
the absence
of
it

as one knows
the filling
of lungs
or
the beating
of
heart

and too
a priori
the
lack
thereof

770. as hue to petal

as hue
to petal

as warmth
to ray

home

in
your
arms

drifting
beyond
shore's
sight

voices
once heard
but
seen

this place
of
quiet
lapping

warm
sun

beyond
words

beyond
endless
discourse

in
your
arms



Yul put the poem down, a solitary stain falling upon parchment.