The front of my head is a dam for tears and the stress is intense. When I move my skull I can feel the pressure shift and slosh and threaten to spill. I struggle desperately to quell the flow, thinking of the runoff and collateral. All those wet inhabitants dealing with the runoff. Why should they suffer because I wasn’t strong. So I shore myself up constantly, building bricks out of vice and mortar in pestilent habits between so the cracks are unseen and the rocky foundations seem stable when viewed from afar. I keep it together for them.
I can’t remember what it feels like to want to love you. The yearning vice that clamps a heart. The penetrating gaze that dissects a mind. The casual touch that quakes a body. The balm that soothes a soul. The libidinous tide of lust. I can remember what it feels like to want to hate you. The smell of burning flesh and ash. The sandpaper rasp of an out screamed oesophagus. The unshakable tremors and knotted muscles. The deep and unabiding rage and confusion. The nightmares and exhaustion. The barren sensation of evaporated tears. The salted wounds. The fears.
At turns crying and laughing, sweetly embracing, sharing saccharine saline and saliva, relief and disbelief, utter joy and the exquisite agony of existence. At some point we stop being merely ourselves. We expand and dissolve, slipping between the atoms of the universe into something seraphic. She licks my tears and declares them ambrosia. I trace the inside of her soul and graze the contours of Gaia. We regress into evolution, animal and archaic, exponentially experiential, presently intense yet stretched from creation to cataclysm, living outside of chronology. We laugh with each other, cry, sigh, and realise who we are.
I can sense a rime of salt caked into the upper rim of my ears. After tears. I shouldn’t cry on my back but I like the way it feels, a milder misery than the wracking hunch or mirror stare manoeuvre. The tears run of course, down my cheeks and into the auricles, crusting, sometimes for days, as though the sandman had missed his mark, wept and moved on. I do feel tired though, which is different from sleepy and accrues an internal kind of crust. I cup my hands around my ears and listen to the ocean die.