Inanimate menagerie of shapes and colors
Once awakened alive by our bodies
by laughter and tears, by touch and taste...
By our scent
Surreal animals stirred cool Andes air from the Ecuadorian tapestry hanging above us, while scattered papers, wine glasses, wet lips, spilled máte, the gas mask, the butterfly kite, your perfect breasts, Potomac river shells, sewing needles, a spare bullet, painted toe nails, tools, my hands, masks, old broken watches, your eyes, melted candles, the Afghan rug, your full mouth, pieces of white chocolate, our musk, flannel sheets, my hard sex, your long black hair, my knife, your discarded gum, Emiliano’s picture y la mismísima Virgen de Guadalupe engulfed us and danced flamenco together to the beat of our love making.
It was yesterday or the day before, I can’t remember…During our hurricane, before this hurricane. When it all still smelled like us.
Before you left, and before I vacuumed and cleaned the past, and watched this lime-green room revert back into the overcrowded, oppressive hole in the wall it had always been; a place full of mere objects that are deadly silent, separate, accusatory, chaotic, disconnected as only suspect and hurtful reminders of lost passion can be.
The way things always are in a place where something has gone seriously wrong. A missing person, a crime scene cordoned-off by absence, a room full of without you.
By our scent
Surreal animals stirred cool Andes air from the Ecuadorian tapestry hanging above us, while scattered papers, wine glasses, wet lips, spilled máte, the gas mask, the butterfly kite, your perfect breasts, Potomac river shells, sewing needles, a spare bullet, painted toe nails, tools, my hands, masks, old broken watches, your eyes, melted candles, the Afghan rug, your full mouth, pieces of white chocolate, our musk, flannel sheets, my hard sex, your long black hair, my knife, your discarded gum, Emiliano’s picture y la mismísima Virgen de Guadalupe engulfed us and danced flamenco together to the beat of our love making.
It was yesterday or the day before, I can’t remember…During our hurricane, before this hurricane. When it all still smelled like us.
Before you left, and before I vacuumed and cleaned the past, and watched this lime-green room revert back into the overcrowded, oppressive hole in the wall it had always been; a place full of mere objects that are deadly silent, separate, accusatory, chaotic, disconnected as only suspect and hurtful reminders of lost passion can be.
The way things always are in a place where something has gone seriously wrong. A missing person, a crime scene cordoned-off by absence, a room full of without you.
By Adrian Boutureira
Mclean, VA- Early 2000's
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