Unfinished

He is the best line in a theatre-script, popping into mind, given half a chance, from the farthest association.

He is a poem folded small and pushed into an imperceptible crack in the corner of a broken house.

He is the hands touching you when you are a wall, not moving away but moving through, even if the bad light has eaten up all clarities.

He is a gallery filled with pictures of you in an un-lived life: there you are, at the window of an unknown house; you chatting with a friend you have not met; and you in unfamiliar clothes with the same eyes.

He is a live-coal between fire-tongs when your knees nip him in social intercourse.

He is the wave-hits through a night-ferry on a water surface that she clings to, cleaves to with all her life.

He is a field of lavender that stands — standing for something just by standing — bending, not breaking, through all our callous meanderings.

He was an unfinished manuscript, burnt to ashes at the height of the plot, then delivered in a box from my current existence to a future life.

6 comments

  1. you write with such intensity of feelings that it moves, it makes you think and also, why not, hope to stop being just a candle flame to be a whole universe.

    Like

    1. Ahh… I like that. Thanks, Fer.

      Like

      1. I identified myself a lot with your text.

        Liked by 1 person

  2. Wow! That’s amazing – “an unfinished manuscript.” Aren’t we all. Still in the stage of “not yet.” What fires will burn today . . .

    Liked by 1 person

  3. Simply Expressed Feelings · · Reply

    Wow… Amazing!

    Like

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