She Speaks in Scents and Memories.

For reference, the following was extracted from sleep on the 31st July 2014 or thereabouts. For some reason, it never got posted. Enjoy?

With dreams so vivid, real life fades away – a temporary respite from harrowing majesty.

The white PVC frame that adorns the red brick walls holds glass smeared with a thousand tiny finger prints.

Beneath, fields stretch endlessly away, yellowing before a cloudless sky, reopening wounds long since sealed.

Green, snot soaked sleeves.

Soles etched with unreadable diagrams.

Brave cartographers mapping out the secret byways of the land.

A decay in the possible.

Avenues of my life severed.

Small legs carry me through these fields.

I try to hold on, reaching out to grip these instances before they fade, but my hands limply collide with the container of my will.

She comes to me, wrapped in linen, less a person now, sliding through the facade of reality. Colour drains from the world, the walls of this building seem flimsy and staged. She stands there for a moment, her flesh unreal, unlit, impossible.

Her mouth opens, herpes scarred lips part revealing teeth too few – crammed into moist, eager gums, but words don’t follow. She speaks in scents and memories.

I could hear her whimpering from the next room. I took my leave, smoking furiously into the night. Lives lived out of sync, chronologies displaced, a cosmology of isolated occurrence arranged to some arcane whim. The significance is only felt in retrospect. Writing a history in reverse.

She doesn’t last, fading into myth, features rendered obsolete as she joins an incoherent and shapeless her – the fire that burns through the house of my life, laying siege to my carefully ordered sanctuary.

Am I really under siege? I watch the rooms of this building laid to waste, the man I was, the rooms I once inhabited – reduced to ash. I run, opening doors into hitherto unknown quarters, past the familiar, into the unknown. I slide through the secret spaces of the house. An attic I never knew opening onto the city, empty rooms hidden within cupboards and between the cracks in memory. Entire floors, piled with unread books and disused furniture. A broken mirror, hidden in the wardrobe, thick with the residue of bodily fluid, reflecting both inwards and backwards. I pick and tear at it, a past not my own lying beneath the blood spattered walls.

And every window looks out onto the same apocalyptic sky.

I head deeper, into the bowels of this place I can’t know, the shifting stage set of my dreams.

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