It storms outside. The curtains twitch idly and he lies still. Bed covers drape nonchalantly across the bed, ignorant of correction, arrogant of form. A light calm floats through the air. A bird sings. What are you thinking? Words break the silence and he wonders looking towards the heavens. I’m asked and I’ll not say…… But he does. The question, almost redundant but resounding with meaning echoes about the empty avenues of his skull. He begins. There is a fire inside he cannot contain; a newfound quest for life which blooms into being. There is beauty, never before seen in the world and each sip tastes more delicious than the last. The sun always seems to shine and where did all our time go? Tulips, cedar and cast iron. Cellar door. He hums along besottedly to a familiar song.
What am I thinking? He groans at his inept romanticisms. He practises speeches and draws pictures which inevitably coalesce into childlike renditions of infatuation. He picks lines of literature like cherries and drapes them strategically into conversation with no sense of limitation. He looks toward his phone unabashedly and each hour of silence stings worse than pain. The scent from his pillow sends him, cascading into lines of rhyming prose, not quite poetry. There are symphonies which persevere in the distance and he wishes he could sing. There are words he would like to say but he remains mute, shackled by his apoplexy, his traumatised tongue. It is more complex than the spinning stars in the sky, more beautiful than mathematics. He is in reverie and nightmare, his days crashing about him in roaring emotion. He is enthralled.
Inside she stirs and gently sighs in her sleep. He rolls in towards her fragile frame and whispers. I love you.