Reconstruction

She holds the broken bits of me. The shards and shades of things I was, the half-mad, scribbled aspirations, the shreds of plans laid firm on paper. Nothing concrete. She cradles the pieces in strong, capable hands, holding them close as she might a child. Cradles all the jagged bits that would cut the flesh, spill the blood, soak up the life of another for sustenance. She holds me, all in tatters, raving at the wind, and succors me. She sings me songs of lightning or of love or sweat or, better yet, she sings to herself and I am suddenly, utterly, enthralled.

I find myself listening while she sings, humming a tune as my vocal cords are woven back in place. Softly, now, lest I interrupt.

My fists unclench, the fingers flex. Small wonder those recover so quickly. I can build or destroy in equal measure with those hands, and now the temptation arises anew. I may reach up and stroke her cheek, follow the jawline to her lips, kiss her with my fingertips, or wrap my hands around her throat and end the healing now.

My lips are dry, but my tongue soon follows and I find my appetites whetted. What those are is hard to say.

I feel her move, sure-footed, and wonder how she holds me still. Perhaps she hardly notices the barbs that lance her palms, the weight that rests upon her arms. Perhaps I am still weightless. Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps. I have ever been one to question. Rather, posing answers to which there was never a question.

She sings and I have made my choice, my instincts all be damned. I will keep my thirsts in check, and strain to feel her hands. My nerves, exposed, send sharp sensation careening into space. There is not enough left of me to tell pleasure from pain. My heart begins its throbbing beat, my blood begins to flow, and still she sings that song. I think I may recall how I became this shattered mess of glass and bone.

I stood to turn the world aside, no. A storm arose and swept toward me. No. I stood, and that's all that stands out. I stood alone, a fool, and went bare-chest into the rain, with only words to guard my back, to help me keep my feet. But somewhere in that driving wind, somewhere in that tempest, I forgot the words and I was borne away in pieces. I drowned and burned and bled and screamed. I died, over and over. I reached out, grasped for strength and gasped and the darkness was all I knew.

I recognize the song she sings. I recognize the words. All the strength I've ever known came from those. She must have found me, lying there, wrapped in my own entrails, and gathered me up from the ground, and carried me away.

My lungs are full of fluid, my eyes are full of blood.

She's given me my only gift, squandered and forgotten. Spent in more futile pursuits, and left to spoil in the sun. I am, at once, content and full.

I am a creature of facets, cracked and fractured. I feel paradoxical, weaving between fragile porcelain and adamantium. I am weak and indestructible, meek and invincible. I revel in revelry, in the gift, the gods-given gift of words that pour from my tongue like sweet, smoky bourbon. I am intoxicating, invigorating. I am quixotic to the point of neurotic and though, necrotic, my limbs have all rotted away I find a tonic in her voice. If I'm catatonic it's by choice. I've spent too many dreams already, too many ill-gotten words on bodies that discarded me or were discarded when I woke from the passion and found them limp and ashen.

I'm cocaine, charm and brazen, brashly boasting how I'm potent enough to interrupt the flow of libido and turn the weak upon themselves for my own amusement. I'm fishooks in her flesh even when I seek to be less. Though I want to build her up, to write her dreams into reality, to play god and see all the good I can do, I know a part of me will always want to sink in, addiction, and never let her loose.

And suddenly, I've become self-aware. I can smell the fragrance of the flowers in her hair, I can see the way her lips move in time with her song and I can't help but wonder how she's held me for this long. I can't help but staring, I can't help but reach out and touch her with my own skin. She arcs into me like lightning, scatters my thoughts and turns me inside out. She dips her head, raises me to her lips and kisses me. I taste for the first time, I feel for the first time, I breathe for the first time.

Kissing her is like being created.

I find my feet, firmly, standing on my own. And for the first time in eons I feel entirely at home.

Yours,
-S.R.