Quiet.
I think it is the awful quiet...the lack of noise. Lack of presence.
An eclipse.
So vastly different when she enters the room, her quiet steal...shutting the door behind her and in closing it she becomes the world. Every time.
An ocean of her, the salt of her...a voice, a laugh, an intake of air...a release.
Even in quiet moments there is stirring, proximity is kinetic, this tension between them like the moments before a tornado...energy, heightening...
It is like bathing...cleansing...
She occupies...she abides. I can possess her, and arrange. We can envelop. Clench.
And then those moments when the air stiffens...and she has to depart.
Mechanical. Stonefaced.
Goodbyes.
And the door slams on my prisoned brain, my hands empty.
And my other world returns, its cloak a lonely, wet shroud.
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