Put You In The Room
By Bryan May
She
erected herself out of bed, deciding it time to write.
Well, she possessed the desire to write, but how
could she? The keys on the computer were not completely
functioning. Functioning, yes, but complete, no. One
specific key below the Question while on top of the
Zipper proved defunct. Proof encountered when she
left her region of rest, bewildered by the sleepless
blunder, her curse for centuries, or so it seemed.
“Bedtime.” Would the post office worker deliver the letter
some time soon? Would it be the letter she needed to hide
the ne’er forgotten lies deep where they belonged? Hidden
deep, not the forefront of her mind or life. The room is
lightless, she thought. She uttered it for only the ceiling
to detect. “This room is lightless.” Yet were those her
fingers? It so devoid of light she thought for moments, two
or three the most, she could decipher her digits while
looking beyond the spectrum, which could be described,
“pitch.” “Time to write,” she mouthed. Contorting her body,
she extended her top left limb to fumble for the switch to
ignite the bulb. Ignition. She squinted out of struggling
blindness, both from her illumed surroundings, combined with
her 20/200 vision, unlocked by the turning of the switch.
Her lips were moist, which never occurred during nighttime
sleeplessness, or ever. Prior to this evening, they were
shredded, crinkled, set to split, embedded with lines.
Before every kiss, petroleum of some form she touched to the
protectors of the teeth. She loved him, loved his gentle
enveloping of her lips, yet despised the sun stung, wind
whipped feeling the kiss left her every time. Why were they
so sensitive? But this morning, err, night, err, morning,
they were moist. Looking to the region north of her wrist
when held upright, yet south of her fingers, she desired the
feeling derived from bliss. The five used to grip were
extended while fully stretched, the region opened to its
furthest extent. The lines of love, conquest, scores yet to
come with whistles from time lost just one blessed inch from
her mouth, were the object of her eyes’ interest. She
slightly puckered her lips, while opening them enough to
suckle the welcoming skin. Confirmed. This is the
exhibition of loneliness. The emptiness never so powerful,
the conjunction of forgotten with discovered. Eyes closed,
quivering, this delirium proved to be mesmerizing. Her own
lips, moist to the touch, gliding effortlessly on her own
skin. She, the unexplored, would not forget herself now or
ever. She forgot to remember for too long. Her vision
given nothing but the eyelids to consider, she would only
welcome herself with two kisses. She longed for more, but
two enough to know she could continue on.
The
presence on the night piece next to her bed proved necessity
if she were to properly focus on the computer screen. In
order to type effectively, it would soon come time when her
determined focus would be required. She withdrew her lips
from her skin, wishing everyone could experience the
exquisite turmoil of kissing one’s own flesh, discovering
the inner existence. The fidgeting fingers found the
required object for sight, so she introduced it to the
bridge of her nose, permitting herself opportunity to
identify the room. Feet on the floor, she stood up, fully
extended, legs lengthened by her tip-toe “get up to write!”
pose. Unlike her, the computer content with “sleep” mode,
this rendered by the single click of the mouse. She felt
compelled to revisit her tortured love story theme, the
theme omnipresent in most of her writings. Most? It
the theme exclusively present in her writings, but it must
be so.
“L rry To
Be.” Perfect title. Why not? His mother relinquished him
the moniker upon birth, even though his mother’s
mother detested it, secretly hoping her only child would
coin the son, “Benson,” which she thought to be powerful.
Mother, revolted by the prospect, ended discussions
promptly. Months before being born, there existed brief
discussion involving the unlikelihood mother would refer to
her son, “Benson.” Therefore, in the months to come, there
proved to be very little overt dispute. This evening, our
storyteller’s plight would involve the wounds of hindered
emotion. She, the expert in reflecting upon errors in
judgment, with interjections of “could be so wonderful, if
only for” philosophies, found herself deserted. Only the
computer with hindered set of keys present to spell the
stifling grief. Tell me once more of the person who showered
you with the love you now live without. Tell me once more
of the vowel-less torture inflicted upon you.
Bryan May
bmay@emarketmakers.com
