Words without walls
How little you have affected me. Affectation is an art. A highly rigorous, clearly delineated display Of controlled body movements – the arch of the back, the curl of a hip. It is a dance that can never be taught – for it has no teacher. Nothing can come from nothing. Graceless and plebian, soaring and elemental – it bolts all emotion to the bone and grinds against the skin. A paste of sorrow. A paste of ash. Waxy and plural in its enigmatic accusation of betrayal and guilt. Its complete lack of faith. Words without the walls of the mouth to contain them. No rooms, no confinement. It confuses me – spans my lifetime in its impossible frailty. Its unwillingness to break. Yet there is none of that here. Disjointed and ethereal, I am painfully conscious of my predictability. My impervious heart – placid and stable. My unwilling body. My immovable mind. Perhaps this is true love.
