by Glen Binger
The sunlight is piercing the thin layers of flesh on my fingers and pumping itself through my veins like a virus. It smells like you. It reminds me of your smile. And I want to swallow it and soak it in the acidic fluids of my stomach. But I can’t. I won’t.
“It’s going to happen,” you tell me.
I am stuttering my breathing to understand. The sunlight is washing though my veins and recycling into the heart.
I ask, “Are you kidding me?”
You realize the price of your statement and try to retract the words with your hands, caressing the definitions of my face and trying to read my mind. But you can’t.
Now, the sunlight is thrusting into other organs. Into my brain; my thoughts.
Suddenly, out of resentment and frustration and spite, you continue; “I’m probably going to do other things I know you will hate, too.”
Our eyes actually meet for the first time in the progress of the situation . Sounds cancel out. Life becomes nothing. You’re trying to apologize in hazel and blonde. But I will not accept. Weakness haunts me but I will never sink below the level of forfeiting my soul.
The sunlight is growing, glowing; multiplying so it can access all of my extremities simultaneously.
“I don’t know what to say to you,” I say.
Still, you are unresponsive. You are content in your rhythmic movement, concentrating on where to place yourself. You forget. I remember. And I move to the corner, beneath the puncturing slices of terminal light. It begins spreading, the thick aroma of you.
Rejected by elimae