AUGUST 29, Barcelona Airport:

Black night. Your hands in my hair, running across my chest. We entangle, blind. Our bodies slick with sweat, with come.

These are the last times. Primordial. Sightless. Before language. Like we are creating the world.

I am in you, awash in pleasure.

The alarm rings. I grope for it, hurl it across the cabin. It doesn’t stop. We continue, as well.

— – – —

We take a taxi to the airport. My innards in knots.

Me: This is the first time we’ve been in the back of a car together.

You: What about Montpellier?

Me, remembering: Right. Montpellier.

You, grinning, changing topic: Monaco.

Me: Mirmande.

You, searching: Moulin de la Pipe!

Me: I’m out of M’s. Do you have an N?

You: No, but I’ve got an O.

Me, scanning: Hmm, what is it?
You: Your boyfriend, Oscar Wilde.

– – –

The driver produces our bags from the trunk. I pay him while you go in for your ticket. A plane howls above. You are leaving.

I follow you in.

Me, handing you your origami boat: I added an address. When you’re ready.

You, pulling an envelope from your purse: Here’s something for you, too.

You: Kiss me now. Better for you to disappear.

We kiss. Fierce, tender, passionate as ever.

Then you turn away.

From afar, I watch you queue for security. The guard matches your passport to your face. You say something, share a laugh.

The poster tube goes into the x-ray while you walk through the metal detector. For me, a moment of panic at your potential discovery.

But you both pass to the other side, are reunited, and disappear into the rest of the world.

I sit on a bench and open your envelope. Inside, a simple card without motif, colored in the hue of the setting sun of Moreau’s painting.

Me, opening, whispering your inscription: Your love covers me with gold.

I fold the card and find its cover smudged with my fingerprints. My hands are aglow in golden dust.

I almost feel guilty for what I’ve done, even if it was only for your safety.

Whenever you get where you’re going, whenever you open the poster tube and search beneath the enigmatic smile of Mona Lisa for Salome.

Whenever you find the linen sheet from Le Chateau that has taken her place, I know you’ll be angry.

I can hear you now, from the future, from across the globe, cursing me with the only insult that is ours alone.

You: Botanist.


This entry was posted in Uncategorized. Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s