Ours is a story of lengthening shadows. Of endless nights and leaky lamps. We write them with grunts and moans. It soars with the moon and then disappears with it too. We have no words, no expressions, no gestures. We live and die every night. For our story is no different than theirs. They live in us and we breathe in them. This commingling is our story.
Of smokey lights and broken windows. Of hazy images and flickering lights. We peep through the cracks. Sneak through the key hole. We have no form. But we shape everything. Ours is the story of no emotions. We loiter in empty words. In those long forgotten pauses, in unformed sentences. This silence is our story.
Of muted whispers and lurking fingers. Of jerking hands and guilty secrets. We linger in the turbulent atmosphere. Revel in ponderous ornery. Skulk through the sulks. Rejoice in the screams. In the waiting, unspoilt bed. With two bodies, non touching, facing opposite ends. We live in torpidity. This dissonance is our story.