Words, Unspoken

kisses magritte joe webb

There is a quietness.This is what I want to speak of. The approximate 80%. The 100% you are alone in your skin and the approximate 80% you are alone in your thoughts. When you hear the screams of laughter from children over the fence, see the reflective red rear light of a bicyclist as he rides away from you, motors rumbling with the comings and goings of a handful of lives that will never touch yours and you look up at three visible stars in the evening sky, reaching out from light years away, like they were placed there just for you, just for me—to ponder.

It was a warm night and I felt like a window. He peered in and I felt giddy with exhibitionism. We talked for hours.

How many minutes had it been since that night? Words flew from our hands and into each others inboxes. “You’ve got mail.” These words were written just for you, just for me. Together, but apart, we saw the moon blushing and wrote our lives into words on a page.

The air conditioning was broke and between kisses and tongues rolling, he lifted the bottom of my t-shirt and blew air up my spine. I shivered, hot and cold with anticipation. It was the sweetest and most sincere moment I have ever spent in bed with someone. Fully clothed and terrified that a person such as he didn’t really exist; projection versus reality.

“There is no greater delight than the freedom of Angela’s toes.” I laughed under the halo of the porch light as he recited poetry about the liberation of my feet from the confines of my shoes. And words came to my mind and failed at my lips approximately 80% of the time.

*Art by Joe Webb, Kisses Magritte


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