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Tuesday, August 4, 2015

Plato and dead things or dying.

At the touch of a lover everyone becomes a poet, the old man says. I listen to him, and for my little mind; I make it all up in comprehensible colours and simple pictures in my head. I see a lot of red and fluid shapes, a liquid something. Everyone’s dead or about to die. I don’t tell him what I see. I keep it all to myself. It doesn’t hurt much. I tell him about something similar an average aged man once said, that when love is born a friend dies. I imagine a smile across his cynical face. I’m allowed to assume if it suits me. We all do. We all are. I have killed many people for this once in my life. He probably knows this. That I’m assuming or that many people have died because of my own teeth. He knows that I’m just a little boy. I know he is old. We try to not focus on that. With love; we have both learned that counting things isn’t a good thing. He tells me about the beauty of kisses and the many worlds they open up in our chests. He tells me about the niceness of holding hands even in sleep as if the lovers are trying to walk through the same dream. He tells me about the healing powers of shoulders when tears or fatigue and worldly things make us sad. He emphasises on how warm and comforting it is to just know that a heart is there at home or somewhere, beating in your name. I’m smiling at most of them as he relishes himself though his speech, his eyes are closed and his smile is not just my imagination now. That’s good, I assume. A cloud is shaped like a sore knee above us. We look at it and say nothing. There are no birds at all. This is terrifying. I assume an owl in my head. He assumes a bat, I assume. I show him my scars. He shows me rivers. I show him how new they are. He shows me a graveyard. It was opened a few months ago. Apparently there isn’t enough empty space for people to be buried, it might close soon. There isn’t enough of earth for people to keep dying. I show him a shirt I wore just last week, the stains on it are still fresh, you can even guess what kind of tears were spilled all over it. I shouldn’t have worn it that day. I imagine the things about kisses. The painful tongues we toss into each other. I assume a sadness form atop his forehead. He doesn’t look away. I imagine things about shoulders. The heavy we build and solidify on each other every time we don’t understand our respective meanings. The faulty wires of communication. I imagine the electricity of hands, the warmth and the comfort. I see all these from the other side. The shock, the burning and the aching, not so much a discomfort but something a bit lethal. My point is to tell him about the dead things I see when love is born, or when a touch from a lover approaches. I cannot find a good way to say this. I want to say something like; at the departure of a lover a poet is born or continues dying. I know he will definitely assume that I will further elucidate on this. I’m not certain if I want to do that. I mean; he should just look back at my scars if he really wants a better understanding. He will want to know if I got these scars from a lost love or an approaching one, I assume. I don’t know If I should continue this dialog. He’s heard a lot from the dead ones talking about my fears and doubts pertaining to this subject. He knows that they were all assumptions, propelled by their circumstances. I know that he knows that I’ve never feared dying. This time I’m not assuming. He’s heard about the other time when I enjoyed these talks and the experiences because I truly liked this love stuff. I still do, he assumes. Or we both assume. That I don’t like this stuff or I still do. He doesn’t really look at my shirt from last week. He knows I can cry more than that. I have seen him cry many times. Or I might be assuming, again. We both know that I’m either running or waiting. We both know that I’m either ready or about to die. I’m usually about to die, we both know this. He might be dead already. But I’ve always been good at dying, far classier than him. He doesn’t like to admit to this though. We both know that my last escape was exactly that, the last. Both him and I are fully aware that I might be running or waiting. For you to arrive or return.
Yours, 
assuming something alive or really dying or dead. 
The Hidden Boy with Circles. 
…back to The Shadows. 

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