Dont know where this will fit in - probably after he has run away from home and from his wife and he meets the other woman. He is attracted to her, and he is - in a strange detached way - surprised at himself for being so. He is surprised he can still feel things like this. Dolly is still dead. He can still feel the weight of her little body in his hands. He can still here her screaming 'dadddy'. This is the first time he has felt anything intense outside her grief, however feeltingly, and he is surprised he can. He doesnt feel ashamed, or guilty, thinking of his wife back home, who he ran away from. That too surprises him. Its like he is apart, watching this strange creature called "him". He hasnt told her about anything. This new woman. He doesnt actively pretend or ie, he never does, as much as he just 'forgets to mention' any 'unnecessary details', unless asked for. Some cruel part of him is pleased with the deception. How? Why? And at night he still dreams of his little girl, still feels guilty he let her die. thats kind of context for this part of it. if i could use verse id plug the beast here somewhere. at the end. maybe at home, by a fire after he has drunk a lot and cut his hands by some stupid accident and he cant be bothered to get up and clean or stop it. he just sits there and stares at it and his mind runs on in thoughts. Dunno - might scrap that too
It's not sexual, though it dances on the fringes of passion. It's like a burning need to know. To know something about the other person. But the feverishness of the need makes it almost seem to trandescend the intellectual. I would'nt know how to explain it more efficiently, really. In a world where human thoughts, desires and relationships are stored in strictly methodical filing cabinets, managed by zealous and efficient keepers of society, it is awkwardly out of place. Ofcourse, there is an element of desire, but its more like a tropical summer storm, than the year round british rain. It comes like a fever in the head, and you very well know it will pass.
So you were with me in my thoughts. Having spent the day and night with you like this, by proxy, (and you'd be amazed at the silly-mad things we did) makes me wonder if I am, finally, losing it! And it also makes me wonder what it would have been like if life had placed me in a different context.
Cruel, yes it was. A bit. Laughing, I hand out praise and strokes like crumb to swans gratefully floating. It's not exacty bait. But neither is it something more. It's entertaining to see you react. It's all in the game.
Now I wish you were here. I miss someone, or something, like a kick in the stomach, like me breath being kicked out of my lungs ... but I dont know who ...
Could it be you? Wish I knew. Wish I had the right to miss you. But I dont. Wanting you, now, comes at a huge price. One I know cant afford. Even in installments. So I hold the "missing" in the palm of my hand, gently, like a snowflake (like a begger frozen outside the pastry shop ... will the little princess come out and be kind to me?) And wait for it to melt.
Looking through this emptiness, holding my throbbing pain pressed still in my hand to calm, desperate for distraction, holding on the the last pieces of the corpse I still carry, or struggle to ... because it has grown intwined with my sanity ...
In sudden flashes, looking through the emptiness, desperately seeking distraction, becomes looking for you. Startled, my heart contracts with a frission of fear. Who are you? Master, Slave, Friend, Twin ... Who is that inside you, at the heart of the onion: who is that you carry hid? He looks like me. Can you let him out? Can I take him away. I promise to be bored and done soon - one day. And you can have him back, then. But not before.