Nothing’s happening.


Madam, you and I, we cannot for much longer hold this charade. See, we’ve been squaring each other up now for hours, planted stoically on these prickly stumps ill forgotten by the hoi polloi. I’m aware you have some precedence for these types of encounters—isolated, sticky, with a quilt of cache—but in these matters I am hardly affined.  Tune me out, if you must, to get things started. Hand there, on my thigh. Jarring fingers. Age me now, I beg you.


`           But wait, why have you retracted touch so quickly? Is it that this locale be too swampy? Do these lips feign the moisture irrigating your keystone estuary? It just so happens that you needn’t worry about trying to impress me, for as I mentioned before, I’ve not yet dipped into anything so runny. But still, you don’t believe me. You’ve not the same zest in your gazes that bid my heart go forth. The frizz in your hair bleeds not for me as it once did some minutes ago, before a westward zephyr revealed the damning evidence of my birth. But why let such vagaries fjord our trusts? Is there nothing better in this town to do than breaking scripts and hymens? Of both, I’ve never done, until now, as I kiss you.


No charm in this my third lament; how cold cheeks rape on still sustaining earth. Where I’m from, as you know, skin and soil are indistinguishable—wind stripped and fruitless. “Bully the body, saint the soul” is the first expression all newborns are tatted with. Can you guess where mine is? I’ll give you a hint: above the toes. Don’t look down at them now, or else we’ll both lose interest.  But I’ve been talking for much too long. Please, please, let us rhapsodize the hour with nature’s percussion, harmonizing each moment with a higher pitch still. Those candles by your feet are dimming; might as well face the night. Have you any means to get home? I can walk you, if you want. But I must warn you in advance that you’re not my only visitor tonight—a boy much more preying than I trails your scent, but not for the reasons you may think.


That’s it—doucement. Pitch is the art you know so well. How lonely it was straddling this hulk of wood alone, doping off the dimples and hues of your eyes, unaware of the fortunes cached in tradition only inches away, just seconds from passing said truth through similarly endowed revelations. But even now, under this magenta-less evening sky, we are worlds apart, just as before. Tell me, if you can, did everyone anticipate this when Judgement Day came?