The chill air with wet hair bites at the nerves. We watch the sky. The sea and the fire…. and the feel of hands. They weave through my hair ….and this time in the night as I watch the shadows on the wall move in tune to the music that pounds upon the piano keys …. I forget who I am, where I am —I forget time and place
…. and disperse into the nonsense of senses to the rhythm of the Long Island ocean waves. It adds skewed dimension to dreams, such as warping images
They melt into the fabric on the static, and senseless like shadows across the wall
there is only this. Yes, it is this. This sense that it does connect somewhere ….and …. I do hope it will find its way to me and within such lucid dreams, I feel into the great chasm beyond those leaps of faith and —know that here I do trust. Yes. Here I do. It is here— because here —I know…. without question
and just grip so tight onto it; and with it, it comes like the warmth that spreads with the scent of cedar and sandalwood, and the silk of his hair —and without need to reflect, give up and wrap around pressing in to me, unconsciously awake, and like so many times we have once long before done this so like this, we move and join to each other in that age old embrace and where somewhere in consciousness and time, and wrap around him
under that big mysterious sky of characters the waves crash
and take him upon the shore
****
It seems awhile that I stare into those waves. And the waves it seems I watch ….and the foam ….mix with cloudy images ….like thoughts…. like memories, water and waves and sky and foam ….that reflect like clouds in the stillness
And I see his face …. I see another face ….beside his face ….I see another time
and no he is not the pirate here nor the spy but another time …. he is younger but it is the same eyes ….and it is somewhere cold and …. the gold of his hair in the light —but he wears a black Cossack shirt —why should I see this now? ….I wonder looking at him, from —across the wide circle because ….
“Duva!”
I wake up
he pulls me up from sleep with his hands under my arm pits with a slight jostle and stares at me —the same way as the dream and ….for a long moment I am frozen in mind; my thoughts seem somehow misfired; mis-wired between unconscious worlds ….still within
I stare at him. And touch his face. I trace his eyes with my finger tips staring into them …. with my eyes burning; I touch his mouth ….and then the bridge of his nose and mold my fingers across his face up to his cheek bones seeing ….so many ….many ….memories
but he stares at me intensely,
“duva….?”
It is kind of a fraction more of moment where I feel myself reeled back into the present moment —by him
He says,
“It was happening again—you were screaming.”
“Was I?” but all I remember is ….watching the water and—oh, yes, the dream when I saw —him?
“What’s wrong?” he asks me
Only does it occur to me that it is the middle of the night —and we are in the Spanish pirate’s giant bed —together…. so, what part was the dream that was so…. familiar
“Is something going on you’re not telling me, duva? What were you dreaming?”
“Why?” I ask him and—staring at how the moonlight’s shadows fall ….in hollows of his face which —distract and mesmerize me but wondering why he’d ask this, “something going on?”
But …. why is it that he just looks at me so oddly?
No comments:
Post a Comment