hagiography

Every object in a state of uniform motion tends to remain in that state of motion unless an external force is applied to it.

Anaesthetised by drink and drugs she crawls into bed. She would be comatose, except for the thoughts that refuse an armistice to enable sleep. And what next? Masturbation to relieve some of the tedium of dependence? No. She is comfortable in her vulgar, clammy solitude. She could dream of unicorns and him and other impossible fantasies that fold like umbrellas when the storm passes as the day breaks.

He says nothing. He shows nothing. He acts nothing.

She sits writing this morbid love letter while small particles burst around her, tiny dots of lightening that interrupt the otherwise marooned mundane. They dance in front of her, brightly puncturing little holes in the fabric of her reality.

Her nose twitches and her eyes sting, but still she writes, turning this inside out. He, he? Where is he? Perhaps his bones are slumped in a chair and his mouth is open ready to receive shovelled food. She imagines the creases of his jeans folded against the skin of his legs, dark in between spaces, material against flesh, where light is lost in the normality of covering up.

Covering up? What have they covered up except for their naked wounds? Between them they have built a wall and then laughed at the perversity of it all. Literal, he is so literal, poetry annoys him because he never sees it in motion. Movement, always a movement to everything, a repulsion and propulsion towards and away from inertia. The pulse accelerates for a reason. She moves constantly, even in sleep, always her body is hankering away from stillness, her mind from peace. Sometimes she just wants him to hold her, to contain her, to stop her.

He stares at a blank TV screen. He resists the urge to do anything except stare. When his eyes are fixed his focus is determined and nothing disturbs his concentrated vision. She teases at the edge of his perception, like a ballet dancer waiting in the wings. He is resolute in his anger and rejection, but still she seems to be a butterfly.

‘Kiss me.’
‘No.’
‘Kiss me.’
‘No.’
‘Kiss me.’
‘No.’
Each of his defiant refusals is an admission that he is still there.
‘Kiss me.’
Silence
‘Kiss me.’
Silence
‘Kiss me.’
Silence and she withers in her poetic licence, disgraced disgracefully.

He could examine his nails. She could scratch her eyebrow. He could flick a suddenly noticed speck of detritus from his leg. She could twirl her hair around her finger. He could take off his glasses and clean them. She could run her tongue over her teeth … Neither will know the minutiae of the actions of the other, or feel the hostile attention of the other, or sense with absolute certainty the movement of the other, because the other is not there, the other is unavailable, the other is the other, separate, separated.