As if I were breathing
(prose poetry)

I breathe, in the indecisive morning, between the mist and the grace of one who has just awakened after dreams with no night, in a night of soft linen sheets and of the conscious adjacency of another warmth, softly, lightly perched upon my sleep.

I breathe, in tiny spirals of invisible essence, roses that will, maybe, unfold, later, in that awe of petals blushing, all of a sudden, among a whiteness much too pure, much too contained, and almost cold, but, after all, still impressionable; perhaps, even, and deep down, of a rather intense red that unhurriedly simmers, while it waits for the thorns to reveal it in the gashes of another skin.

I breathe fruits, as if I were biting them in the retina and allowing their juice to flow into the avidity of perception, yet to come, but already touched, by fingers and mouth, in the fragment of air, luscious and latent, of a voluptuousness that I’ll come to contemplate as a sigh, whole.

I breathe languor, as if I were inciting alacrity; and I breathe a diffused irony, that elongates itself in my veins with the aloofness of some apocryphal cat, but that simultaneously coils itself, panting like a dog that waits, with an arched back, for the caress or the slap… to then bite the soul or lick the hand.

I breathe what has already flown from ponderings in yesterday’s smoke, as one who inhales the sense of today’s wind, and then exhales, and stops thinking of tomorrow’s breath.

I breathe words, languidly teasing words, amused by the sluggishness of the quill that doesn’t trace them, because it has been delayed in the wings of some dove, plump from love, and, perhaps for that reason, too tired to fly; and I breathe silences, bruised smiles with open wings and secrets hanging from the beak with the shape of tears that will, probably, come to fall upon distant waves and be taken for an orgasm or the sea.

And thus I wander, about the indecisive morning, in the measure beyond measure where I find myself, between the will, abstract, and the feeling, post-impressionistic, that makes me write like this;

As if I were breathing.

-- © 2008 by Alexandra* ~ OneLight*®