The day's grind was cut short by an unexpected half-day holiday. They were spending the few, snatched hours lounging on a creaking cot. Bleary-eyed from work, hands cold from dish soap, feet sandpaperish catching at the blanket fuzz, skulls clogged in sinus, every inhale ringing a sickly wheeze. They had in their lungs, the residue of evolution, the slivers shed from a million faces. The dust of days, human-flakes crowding the air – so inhalable. A lacing of fever gave their hard nails a tinge of yellow and memories of cheap meals echoed from tooth hollows and premature greys. Odour of tired decay lingered in their breaths. They turned another page together, adoring eyes drowning in the words. In between they cracked peanuts and chewed hard trying to stave off the daze of exhaustion; there was work in the evening, reports to be submitted, articles to be written. But right now they lay there immersed in thoughts - the wonderings and wanderings weaving a dark web of wilderness full of secret convolutions and configurations so dazzling, so vast and so exquisite that if not for their fragile bodies that needed to be fed, they would have lived in there forever.
In the afternoon their skin became soft, ticklish ghosts covered in wavering shadows. Rivers grew deep between them and poetry tangled in their bones growing out into antlers, blossoming into sighs. At that hour when everything fell into a hushed erubescent glory, the cracks, the layer of dust, the water stains, the mosquito bites, the groaning ceiling fan, everything disappeared. Pure iridescence - melting, multiplying, mutating - the room brimmed with silken light. One tired face briefly smiled before dissolving into the other. They forgot their precarious perishability, the looming deadlines, the dwindling time. A wound was healed, a sore soothed, a bruise repaired, a despair whispered away. The promise of their warm togetherness alleviated the daily ache of living, of scrapping through, of stretching the limits simply for survival. As the cobwebs shimmered in the wafting light, the room became an almost-wonderland. Unsaid things grew wings and flitted in their throats, and their bodies filled with unbearable happiness. They will never say those things, it was implied through small tenderness, gentle croons and sleepy hums.
November unfurled its misty soul and wisps clung to trees. Another year rolls away. Every day is a tuning of a violin. Everyday the notes from the distance thrummed louder.
- November 2015