He would be the kind of person who grits ice cube between his teeth just to feel the electric because somewhere long ago, he read a prose where the poetess described her personality disorder and how it "stopped feeling like someone holding an ice cube to her teeth when he waits for her to answer a question". I imagined he thought the imagery was beautifully induced into simple words. Simple words that were intriguing and he was naïve and eased and cold as ice.
I've felt him against my slumped shoulder. You know, I dream about his touch a lot. He cried on my shoulder, he held my hands and he was always in my subconscious reality. He dreamt of me too, he said. I was laughing and my laugh turned into of a witch's with someone hitting a barrel with a pipe in the distant. I loved the imagery too much and I've started to listen carefully to the sound of my own laugh ever since. I am a witch.
Take a leap back, take a step forward. He lose his warmth when I feel like havana summer. Then, I breathe in winter fog and he wallows in the pool of heat I discarded. There exist equilibrium for all things and somehow, it was clear as day that we were a whole flunctuation kind of existency.
He once said he loved the prefix 'meta', he prefers blue ink to black. We're a contrast, two parts of a diptych.
He was the day, the Sun, the blue, the ice cold, the winter rage.
I was the night, the Moon, the deep dark black, the no-good lukewarm, the mere drizzle of midnight rain.
He is the kind of person to wait for chances, hesitates when it slowly pace in front him thinking, "God, I just know I have forever," and when chances decided to walk straight into hell, "Oh well," of which in this context, I am a machine with similar syntax.
He would be the kind of patient person, the narrator in Haruki Murakami's Sputnik Sweetheart. Him with his sweet and plain answers, with his polite undertones. My Sputnik Sweetheart in some far off world. My Vincent Law. Always keeping me safe and unhurted, afraid of crashing into what he perceive as a thin wall of glass he preserve. Maybe it was a form of respect. Maybe he's keeping himself off danger. Maybe he simply does not care.
I intend this not as anything related to love but as a dip into an eclectic, calm lake, searching for god knows what inside of god knows who.
