I whispered her name in the falling rain last night. It was in the park, where ducks we'd fed bagel crumbs to had waddled about me like I was their mum. Come home lovey, come home, I whispered. The words stole into the air and became instantly soaked by the rain. They fell to the ground mournfully, soundlessly, sweetfully, as if every syllable had been washed away in the puddles. Oh little bird, little pet, who never minded getting wet; how the rain falls on everything in sight, echoing that whisper I murmured with each resounding drop, laminating the ground with the succulent letters of yesterday, a day gone by that no other living man could have survived. If anyone else had known your touch would be their last, they would have ended their lives in despair by now. But not me. Somewhere in the back of my soul there lives a weakness that feeds on the hope that someday you'll return to me and be my wife for eternity. I can't go on living knowing that you'd love another man, and that I should spend the rest of my days searching for someone who's second best. You're my number one, my angel above the rest, my trophy in the flesh. Nothing in the world would make me happier than to see your sun-kissed face re-appear on that boat I watched taking you away from my life. My dearest lady, please, I implore you to deliver me from this madness; the same madness that made Paris select Helen of Troy for his mate, a decision that sent a thousand ships sailing across the Aegean and caused the longest war in ancient history. I suppose it is a great madness though, for of all the reasons to start a war, isn't love the greatest? And this isn't just any love I have for you, dearest, it is of the highest form, I can assure you. Most men perceive love as being smitten by a turn of the cheek or the wink of an eye- things that are only contingent on the beauty of their beholders. This love is often mistaken for lust, and men hunt for it as if it were a treasure that could make them rich beyond measure. The women they try to possess are like prizes for the victors of a game they're trying to win. These men wouldn't recognize a decent, refined woman if she stepped on their shoes. I am not of these wretched men; I have recognized the true you. That's not to say you aren't beautiful; you are one of the loveliest things I've ever laid eyes on. What I'm trying to say is that the love I have for you runs deeper than the flesh. It cuts through your bloodstream and flows with it, deep into the chambers of your heart, where a precious world of fine materials and diaphanous light lives with every beat it takes. It's a type of love that gets stronger with time; not worse, like the fleeting passions of lust. This love I have for you is a spiritual glory that may only come about once in a lifetime. Tell me, do you feel the same way too? That this is the kind of love caused by a chemistry so great that our marriage could last for as long as the rest of our lives, that it is a love so strong that it feels like we're in a fairy tale, where true love is possible and the story we write has a happy ending; that it is a love that doesn't corrupt, doesn't make us codependent, or make us feel afraid that we'll leave each other?
She hummed a line from I Thought About You, a lazy, jazzy line crooned from the lips of Billie Holiday, and oh what a line it was. Her voice was a magnet to my ears; every sound in the world yielded to her British drawl. She is like the Asian version of Daphne Moon, as I am a more reckless version of Niles Crane. What a great couple they made; what a great couple we'd make. I'm sure I looked at her the same way Niles would look at Daphne; a look of longing, a look that could unleash the animal from within a sheltered and orderly person. He called her his love and his Goddess: she was his only reason for visiting that neurotic brother of his day in and day out. But most of all, he was patient. It took them six years to finally be together, so if I am to learn anything from this man it is that patience is my greatest ally. Yes, my bird, I shall be patient and wait for you to realize that I am the only man in this world for you. Oh, what a glorious day it was when Niles finally realized that Daphne loved him as much as he loved her; that theirs was the same type of love that I described above. Our day will come too, I promise you. A day of white. Doves flying out of an elm tree. Your dress as polished and praiseworthy as Monet's wife in A Woman with Parasol. Often I imagine you in one of his paintings, with a little one ambling beside you; me the one painting my family in a landscape of wildflowers, poplars, and other icons of the French countryside, instead of Claude. He painted a portion of your world for everyone to see, least of all me, who would have done it if he hadn't.
That journey to your world has become my greatest destination. There may be iced-over gardens everywhere, but they are alive with your texture. Flakes of fluff, ribbons of pink, furry felines flying through the firmament. Snowy trees and rabbits who have nothing to fear nibble on their food, for there are no predators here. That farce of nature, being banished from the ideal, doesn't suit your pacifism and honorable respect for animals. Nor do the drab aesthetics of modern living. Your home is a boudoir of transparent chiffon waving in an autumn breeze. Marble floors, sheets of satin, paper wind chimes made of origami birds. Even little Luna, your favorite swan, still dangles from the ceiling where her parents protect her. A wink, a blink, a nod. A stray kiss under the chandelier. The wine is toxic to your conscience; we shouldn't be doing this. No, yes. Everything is alright. The light in my chest burns for you. Put the glass down, let’s get to the bedroom. Put on that silk nightgown, and those red velvet gloves. Your bedroom has a view of the morning sky, where curtains of lavender greet the sun every morning. The bed you sleep in is like a temple of dreams, a place where all your desires take form in the alchemy of night. Even me, your big strong American, rests there, lost in a world of flora among the feathers. Dizzy patterns of topiary surround me. I can't get out, I don't want to leave. Tie me to the bed posts and pretend I didn't let you. Turn out the lights and lay by my side. Lay on my chest, my bird seeking rest. I'll give you the wings you always wished you had. A soft little lullaby, a chemical reaction. Our bodies bonding with every bombardment in a nuclear synthesis. A fire rages there, a passion of the senses, alighting our cutaneous membranes with pain and pleasure. Then comes an invasion of perfume, soapy and solemn, marching up my nostrils like the lilacs you planted last spring. What an extraordinary combination of sensations. I feel like I'm being tossed about in a sea of bosomy cream, cream that came from the faucets of your nipples. Turn off that world that made you weep, crawl into bed and let’s go to sleep. Creep into my arms and dream in the deep. My breath on your neck, your hands on my chest. The buoyancy of our bodies on this mattress of milk, tossing and turning us in a hypnosis of silk. It's your favorite time of day, the time when you get to rest in my arms. Close your eyes, my sweet, close your clean, crystal eyes. Let this wonderful place wash your day away. Hold me like you'll never let me go, say my name like it's the last thing you'll ever say.
A vision came to me this morning. It was of an emerald Icelandic bluff, where a little town nestled on the shores of a bay surrounded by volcanic mountains. Clouds rolled through the air and Viorar Vel Til Loftarasa was playing in the background. That cold piano called at the evening sun as it fell toward the horizon over the great Atlantic, relaying all the events of the day, every chapter of every creature in the world ending on its slow descent. We were there on that bluff, and so were many others; it was a celebration, a consortium of white. Then the moment came, a kiss that erupted from our navels like the volcanoes might have done had they erupted over the town. And suddenly we heard violins from the song that seemed to drop out of the clouds, soaring notes came out of them that made gravity give way, sending the atmosphere asunder. Oh yes, the moment came and we wished it had lasted longer but they never do; time sets fire to such moments and just sits there and watches as they burn through the ornaments of eternity. One note soared above the rest, and yes, it was good. Parcels of light from the sun etched the clouds above us with holy shades of maroon, proving that God was a painter and that He'd dedicated this evening to the angels of love. The moment came when I said yes and she said yes and everyone watched us kiss as the sky collapsed, pouring out streams of celestial light onto the seascape. We became stars, halos of white, and children were running all around us, flying kites and playing soccer and watching the waves of the ocean crash on the shore. Others danced while the music of the chapel burst through the seams of the day, bent over the altar in layers of waves that eventually floated to the sky with the words she'd said, yes yes yes, sweet as sugary fingertips and babies laughing, the best word of all the languages known to man, the only one that could have possibly delivered me from the emotional wastelands of the Earth: yes I will, yes I am yours, yes I will marry you.
No comments:
Post a Comment