It rained today just like the days before, and the clouds washed him over, his shirt clinging to his body, the fortress of the language he has only truly ever known, never the words that he writes that can only reach not quite as far no matter how hard he stretches his imagination, contrary to what people would make him believe. He is not a poet, never has been. He is just drenched in rain, his body tired and weary. That is all there is to him. Or perhaps just a little more, but not as much.
True to form, his body language will betray his words, revealing in them what he truly means the way light would shed off the shadows that embrace him like an armor for a skin:
the I hope you're telling the truth for every I don't believe you whenever he looks away discreetly, shying away from the prospect of revelation, except that the depth of the gratitude in his heart will swell all the way up to his eyes, so much so that he cannot help but just sigh as he looks at you, which is his inward acceptance of the things that can hardly be, though he is thankful all the same. There is no relief to be had in kindness being few and far between these days, yet in this mess that is called life he easily discovers light wherever there is darkness, to the point that there are things that might as well be the start of something grand, something where kindness could push all the way above ground with more than enough conviction than one is willing to offer, germinate like a seed nascent with life, and finally meet the sun, and yet this you will hardly notice in him;
the glances he would steal despite the certainty of contempt, his eyes unmoving except for the momentary blink, everyone else busy with what they think keeps them alive these days, not realizing that what sustains them is the same thing that will kill them, and their judgment will fall on him swiftly, calling him out for the furtive nature of what he does, but glance he would anyway, because fuck it, living has never been a crime, and such a thief that only takes away what his eyes will allow him to hold captive can never be found guilty in medias res, because the crime is extinguished by the time the deed is done as if it never happened;
the fingers that would brush against his own will mark him like an imprint for the rest of his life, or maybe what little is left of it. Those gentlest and slightest of all touches, whether by accident or on purpose, they will clobber his senses, turning the screw in his head a little loose one bit more, his brain cast under a spell he finds challenging to name because prudence and recklessness never mix like oil is to water, prompting him to drink more water than he should, because his throat is dry and damn will she ever wet her lips with mine he mumbles to himself, and while some things he will forget and most things he will remember, he will not find what you said he is trying to look for. Here or elsewhere, it matters not. Hands are meant for holding, they say, but no one can ever hold the rain.
And so, La Niña made it rain today just like the days before. It is the weekend and the boy could just walk all the way home and weather the storm, the language of and in his body waiting for the clearance that the rain could bring so that he could talk a little less, write a little less, and do a little bit more. By the time he gets home, he would have nothing to write about, talk about, and all that is left will be body language.
But this, it seems, is just the beginning. Or maybe not, clarity to dwindle down to the point of confusion.
True to form, his body language will betray his words, revealing in them what he truly means the way light would shed off the shadows that embrace him like an armor for a skin:
the I hope you're telling the truth for every I don't believe you whenever he looks away discreetly, shying away from the prospect of revelation, except that the depth of the gratitude in his heart will swell all the way up to his eyes, so much so that he cannot help but just sigh as he looks at you, which is his inward acceptance of the things that can hardly be, though he is thankful all the same. There is no relief to be had in kindness being few and far between these days, yet in this mess that is called life he easily discovers light wherever there is darkness, to the point that there are things that might as well be the start of something grand, something where kindness could push all the way above ground with more than enough conviction than one is willing to offer, germinate like a seed nascent with life, and finally meet the sun, and yet this you will hardly notice in him;
the glances he would steal despite the certainty of contempt, his eyes unmoving except for the momentary blink, everyone else busy with what they think keeps them alive these days, not realizing that what sustains them is the same thing that will kill them, and their judgment will fall on him swiftly, calling him out for the furtive nature of what he does, but glance he would anyway, because fuck it, living has never been a crime, and such a thief that only takes away what his eyes will allow him to hold captive can never be found guilty in medias res, because the crime is extinguished by the time the deed is done as if it never happened;
the fingers that would brush against his own will mark him like an imprint for the rest of his life, or maybe what little is left of it. Those gentlest and slightest of all touches, whether by accident or on purpose, they will clobber his senses, turning the screw in his head a little loose one bit more, his brain cast under a spell he finds challenging to name because prudence and recklessness never mix like oil is to water, prompting him to drink more water than he should, because his throat is dry and damn will she ever wet her lips with mine he mumbles to himself, and while some things he will forget and most things he will remember, he will not find what you said he is trying to look for. Here or elsewhere, it matters not. Hands are meant for holding, they say, but no one can ever hold the rain.
And so, La Niña made it rain today just like the days before. It is the weekend and the boy could just walk all the way home and weather the storm, the language of and in his body waiting for the clearance that the rain could bring so that he could talk a little less, write a little less, and do a little bit more. By the time he gets home, he would have nothing to write about, talk about, and all that is left will be body language.
But this, it seems, is just the beginning. Or maybe not, clarity to dwindle down to the point of confusion.
5 comments:
and here I thought all along that my love language is physical touch, I never knew I'd feel this envious with the affirmations from your words
rain, one that can never really be tamed. it's both calmness and chaos for a weary person, mischief and innocence if put as a person. above all, I'm convinced that the rain excites the oblivious boy to play under it more than it escorts him to the realization of inconvenience. also, it was a decision not to be a poet that day, and so he was drenched, and all that there is is a body language that could not give enough intimacy to the most confused parts because even the boy was not sure himself if he could stay with the cold, should he pursue the thrill or not.
P.S.
i hope this time my comment made it through, because for some reason, although i am ever this brave to confront the nonbeliever, and despite the many attempts i did, your platform can only handle quite from all the confessions i am willing to make :)
Touch is powerful. Combined with words, or speech, or poetry, even a sigh, whichever the case may be, touch can completely make or break someone.
Weird, your previous comments seem to have been incorrectly flagged as spam. Good thing I manually checked the flagged comments and had to unflag yours. Sorry about that :(
But yes, fire away with your confessions. I'm not too sure just yet if I know you personally, but I'll try to figure things out. Welcome, you have been onboarded :)
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