the tastes
the tastes were aligning in my mind living me no space to breathe.
I heard myself asking him: "How are you?". An eternity and a half later he responded: "Good".
the tastes were mixing themselves up again. He didn't know that if he moved his head to the right the same way he did it while he told me secrets of himself, I would stop breathing for good. I would fill my lungs with tastes of blood and salt and kill every little memory I had of him.
He hugged me. His thoughts were crying: "I'm sorry". My lungs were full of tastes of blood and salt. My will melted white and crude through his fingers. He picked it up as if it were a penny and returned it to me. He didn't want the luck.
The tastes took over, and I died.
The only sign of my poor existence was a taste of blood and salt, that never satisfied any thirst.
I heard myself asking him: "How are you?". An eternity and a half later he responded: "Good".
the tastes were mixing themselves up again. He didn't know that if he moved his head to the right the same way he did it while he told me secrets of himself, I would stop breathing for good. I would fill my lungs with tastes of blood and salt and kill every little memory I had of him.
He hugged me. His thoughts were crying: "I'm sorry". My lungs were full of tastes of blood and salt. My will melted white and crude through his fingers. He picked it up as if it were a penny and returned it to me. He didn't want the luck.
The tastes took over, and I died.
The only sign of my poor existence was a taste of blood and salt, that never satisfied any thirst.
posted by silvia at 10:36 PM
1 Comments:
Like hungry guests, a sitting audience looks; Plays are like suppers; poets are the cooks. The founder's you: the table is the place: The carvers we: the prologue is the grace. Each act, a course, each scene, a different dish, Though we're in Lent, I doubt you're still for flesh. Satire's the sauce, high-season'd, sharp and rough. Kind masks and beaux, I hope you're pepperproof? Wit is the wine; but 'tis so scarce the true Poets, like vintners, balderdash and brew. Your surly scenes, where rant and bloodshed join. Are butcher's meat, a battle's sirloin: Your scenes of love, so flowing, soft and chaste, Are water-gruel without salt or taste. --George Farquhar
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