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  • R.T.

Doggerel In the Garret

Updated: Dec 29, 2019

“Please don’t recite the poem.”

“I feel I must.”

“I won’t understand it.”

“You needn’t, though. Just hear my voice. Here, close your eyes;” his hands, coming to her neck but his eyes drifting closed too to sever their contact between souls and breech into minds; “Close them. I know you haven’t closed them.”

“You couldn’t possibly kno—” and she closed her eyes, his opening like a flash, playful but scolding her into it.

“Only my favorite part, I promise: Dawn enters with little feet, like a gilded Pavlova, and I am near my desire. Nor has life in it aught better, than this hour of clear coolness, the hour of waking together.”

Her eyes reopened, the slickness of sleep upon her lids failing to stick any longer now that they’d been reminiscing of the night before since the slow sun had come up. He hadn’t opened his eyes yet; he was still breathing in the affection of his poem silently—she listened closely and lovingly watched the movements of his eyes behind their cover; watched the eyelashes twitch and the nose ever so slightly expand and contract with every drawn air.

His eyes reopened, and the gliding of the sunlight that now danced into the room between the cracked blinds washed over his face like the sea in a gentle low-tide. She was beautiful. How could he have guessed that she’d be so beautiful? How can one ever guess the beauty in a moment surreal such as this?

From their faces was a glowing appreciation that matched the effulgence from beyond the window and lightyears away; they created their own nuclear fusion/fission and set off their own explosions of gas and star material by witnessing the other’s soothing embrace of spirit and of touch. The cleanliness of the twisted sheets; the gnarled scratches of amorous hands against back; the interwoven fingers upon soft knuckles and the shortness of distance between mouths; and the blossoming love was overwhelming to most, as such quickness in feeling isn’t often found. How certain can an individual be when they decide their falling for a person? Is it the chemicals that wire their hearts into acceptance, or is it a deep subconscious that plays a memory of what it means to love on a loop and the person that this belongs to clings to the person that started the reel? Love can’t be ascertained or comprehended or managed or created or destroyed, because love is a madness of color: a swirl of every potential shade and each serenely vivid pigment imperceptible but able to a looker, a viewer, to glimpse it indefinitely.

“Really?” She asks with disbelief.

“Really?” He responds with absolution.

And every dialogue splits from moments of a passing thought because their brains can’t attach quite yet to the recording they view in the back of their minds of the clandestine passion that preceded this morning. They reminisce quietly; there’s a reticence to their vocals, but both hearts beat syncopated, and each beat beats hard and sure.

Allesund, Allesund, Allesund, he repeats in his head as he lets his hazel gaze gaze into her hazel gaze. Souls that “S” together like they were meant to be, and he recognizes this in her corneas and in her pupils relaxed and in her iris; she does the same. Though he cannot see it and though he only feels it, her body is traced from the curled white sheet tucked beneath her shoulder; her body is felt from warm breast to warm thigh on his warm thigh and it is an expression of deep sanguinity he’s yet realized—she, of course, is fully aware of the nature of her place here.

Allesund’s thoughts race, running from her past as quickly as she hopes she can, trying to reach to this boy she’s with briefly, wishing and hoping it isn’t brief but knowing it has to be until she can recognize her surroundings better. She hadn’t been seeing clearly before, and now that this face—Rhys’ face—is before her, his visage promising futures to be adored and booked, she sees that darkness behind her that now claws into her back and into her chest and into her heart…luckily this future he seems to show combats the halfway and she can rest in confusion in the limbo Universe has left her to. Universe always leaves us to dispositions we wish would lighten; it’s a good thing that they always do, and lend themselves to a glow and not a dull light.

“What time is it?” she asks this boy she now knows much too intimately.

“It’s nearly your time,” he replies to this girl his heart is opened because of.

The unwinding of legs and the letting go of fingers and the breaking of contact between mind and of soul because of eyes leaves both of them groggy in the present world, the world which had faded to an “elsewhere” or a “thing other than now.”

Not a single word was said before she left, but she dressed herself and she knew he watched her with more than lustful thought, and so it was okay.

The door was within milliseconds of gain, but she went to him, and their lips met each other for a last time for a time to be unknown. They didn’t want to pull away, as every sensuous slip of lip on lip and the breath exchanged, of the tongues that dared at the brims: it was a melting sensation.



As she left, she looks forward, not back, because the sudden separation reminds her of how dry her heart feels. To stay in that moment forever, where there’s no desert but a jungle of rich soil…it can’t be just a dream. It can’t be just a dream.

But then again, dreams are often better than what's real.