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the warm rivers of my blood

Posted to Stories






No, she thinks, no, her body cramped, her fingers dug into the white cotton. She is falling, counting backwards.

Water is surrounding me and eyes wide open I am drifting among the reeds of my life. A seabird is settling on me, the waters from its feathers dripping onto my skin.
I'm being swept away by the current, seeing the things I've been dreaming of. All questions will be solved, everything will be an answer.
Fishes are swimming through me and I am dissolving slowly. The light in my eyes will break and the moonfish will recover the fragments to colour himself. Glass, coloured glass all around, silently sinking down to the bottom.
A wind is coming up, and the waves are softly sounding as they throw themselves onto the shores of my melting time. Maybe they are searching for me, trying to read in the traces of Aphrodite's cowries that are gently moving across my coldened stomach. The bottom of the dark waters will be falling in folds, slowly wrapping me up. Everything will be smooth and painless.

Blue light surrounds her as she bathes in the moonvalley waters. Reef creatures settle on her shoulder-blades until the cold waters colour them red and they fall apart. It doesn't hurt. And she keeps falling.
Prawns will dwell in the abandoned caves of her pelvis, and when the first winter winds come up at night, the drift will turn and the waters will circle restlessly in the cage of her ribs.

I am sinking, endlessly sinking, feeling nothing.
My bones are falling apart and, polished by sponges, will be washed onto foreign shores. She won't recognize them.
Another sunlight will touch me and it will be as if a human touch reaches me with years of delay.
Salt will be drawing white rims, verses no one will read.

Maybe she hears a sound.
A moonchild on its way through. Nothing but a warm breath in a room lined with red moss. I am your cold, she says. Don't walk barfoot on me, I am afraid I might hurt you.
Maybe she hears a sound.
Please, walk through me, she says, I long to feel the warmth of your naked feet.

Later, much later, she will find the leftovers of my laughing, scattered into her darkest corners. She had been trying to touch it and it had hurt her. Everywhere she will be looking for me. And she will find me in the shadows of my fingertips sticking to her hair and in the imprint of her own body lying on the bed.

The last minutes of narcosis bring stillness, the last minutes of winter bring ice. A silence covering everything. Aquarium blue rooms of silence. Parrotfishes stop so she can last within their air bubbles until the beginning of spring. Hibernating in silence. And when the ice breaks and silence takes me away, then the waters will release me completely and if she asks I will answer: No, you didn't kill me. I've been floating on your skin and have been moonbathing on your collarbone. In the warm rivers of your blood I am alive.

How good it would be if the vibration of a branch just left by a bird remained. She moves slightly. Her hand opens and an bird emerges, flying off the nest of her palm.