hansel

Petra was a martyr; her timid voice like a stone, round, worn and laden with the most beautiful heaviness, perfectly smooth to the touch, but never soft. Long ago shed embraced it, deep in the caverns of herself. She cherished it most (over all things), touched its center: a rich and creamy texture just beyond the mantle of thought and expression. Petra couldnt help but let the tone of each syllable carry a crushing weight (the dullest of which she seemed to relish most), caress each little groove of their power. She would push them out as if each word would let off a little burden of her making. How with each enunciation the space would fill with deadly speed with the same stuff as before: the ephemera of wisdom well beyond years or comprehension.

In comparison my words seemed jagged and plain, like steam from an engine long in decline. Certainly too dim to breach the darkness, the scope of the divide between what is and what could be. She knew these things before I did, the hard lines of her face outstretched in a long, pursing kiss. Ive captured you, and treasure you, she wheezed contentedly, with no illusion of truth to it but with the slightest, convincing gaze.

With a glance or gesture she could strike you, plain and vague with a contemptuous sadness and responsibility. With a heavy heart Id mobilized my senses, grappling their weak will to tour the cold night. Tonight, I dreamt, there had to be new patterns, new colors in my palette. I braced myself for the evening with nothing more than a whimsical sense of self-control.