Spiders

"All my dreams have been demoted to daydreams, all my desires have been promoted to obsessions."

Spiders...

Love letter

I have been watching pictures of you for the past half hour. The only question that makes some sense is, ‘how can you be so beautiful?’ How can anyone, for that matter, be so beautiful?

I have no answer to this question. Lately I seem to be collecting this type of questions in particular. It is a new bizarre hobby of mine. 

Someone may ask me who you are. It is irrelevant. I am not going to give any details because details don’t really matter. I want to focus on how you make me feel. I am sure all people with some light in their souls have at some point seen someone that made them shiver with awe, that near-terror feeling, so name, sex and occupation of the target of their desire is of no importance. I am referring to the feeling itself and how it touches me in a way I can barely grasp or describe in an understandable manner. 

You are so close to perfection that it is scary. The lines of your face almost form perfection. The smooth folds over those tight almonds of your eyes. The way those lips seem like little puffy pillows, soft and juicy at the same time, inviting me. Their light cherry colour signifies something edible. You make me want to extend my hand and press them lightly, test to see if they are real. If you exist. 

Kissing is a forgotten art and for me an advanced part of the foreplay; first I eat the other person with my eyes and try to capture their smell without them realising I do so. I often steal the smell of passers by, follow their trail as they walk fast, not knowing someone is following them. It is very erotic. Then, after I have had a first taste through eyes and smell, I start to chart someone with my fingers. Long after I have satisfied my eyes and nostrils and hands and also my ears through their little sounds, their shivers and whispers, it is inevitable that taste will follow. My mouth would open to taste you, not necessarily your lips, but the soft flesh on your neck and cheek and jaw. People have forgotten how to touch others, how they can use more parts of themselves than just the fingers. I can touch you using my face, my hips and hipbones, my breasts. I can touch you with every part of me save for fingers if needs must. And for such an exquisite being I certainly must.

What makes us desire? Is it just our glands and hormones, screaming for reproduction? I do have a body, I am trapped in flesh. I desire. But I do not desire flesh. I desire form. I desire the little wrinkles you make when you smile, next to your delicious lips. I need to eat you, not fuck you. I want to capture the essence of your beauty, the alchemical equivalent of your smell, the sum of lines, forms and matter that creates you as a result. I want to devour that which makes me want you. I want to capture the little wisps of air that brush against your face when you raise your eyebrows or momentarily blink. I hunger for your soul, not your reproductive organs. I lick my lips at the possibilities of what your life might have been like, of what moments had been like before we met. Were they longer, shorter, more or less interesting? Do you toss in your sleep? Do you just stare out of the window when bored? Do you, perhaps, make little sounds of confusion when you drop something? Those are the questions that keep me busy when I stare at such a face as yours. That, and the gut wrenching realisation that I will probably never find out.

It is the time of falling leaves

The moon tonight looks like a crescent night light that someone stuck onto a huge canvas- a canvas painted in various shades of grey.

It is the time of falling leaves.

I am falling. Everyone leaves.

It does not matter.

The city calls me at night.

It has a tiny voice, disguised as static.

Sometimes the city answers my questions in the form of a passing car with a particular song booming out of its open windows. When I wallow in my melancholy, there is a gentle night bird urging me on through its soft, repeated song. The disconnected, shattered phrases I catch from strangers, while passing by outside their windows or conversations. There are nights I hear the stars themselves tingling as they pour out of the womb of the universe and adorn the fabric of the galaxy. Other nights I only hear my own songs, or sobs. But those too form the voice of the city.

If someone was to pull the fabric, what then?

Isis unveiled.

If I was to reach out and get hold of one corner of the fabric of existence and then try to pull, what then?

Would I discover I am pulling at the flesh of my own face?

I think of Dorian, my vampire serial killer, and of how he understands the night in the city. The songs he hears and I can only imagine. Human voices forming a huge tapestry of sounds, spread thinly over a greater, thicker weave of noises, man-made or otherwise. Animals must stand out in this tapestry like altogether different threads. Different colour and thickness. And there are also sounds that do not belong to any man or animal, sounds that come from very different sources. Can anyone possibly imagine how someone like him perceives this huge, collective creation? If it was indeed a carpet or tapestry one would be amazed; all manners of materials crisscrossing and drowning each other, from the most expensive silk and gold thread to artificial wire and humble straw. Patterns created from a spider on drugs moments before it collapses dead; holes, missing and broken threads, tightly woven parts, parts the whole thing seems on the verge of spreading open, held together only by breaths and times gone; parts thick and oily and grimy with the stench of human toil and despair. What kind of museum will ever hold this tapestry? Are vampires, in this sense, our lore keepers? Is this their true punishment?

When you step out, my predator, does the human smell attract you and disgust you at the same time, the way certain bodily odours do it for us humans? Do you stop by windows, listening to the same dramas being re-played a million times from the dawn of of humanity onwards? Betrayals and promises of forever, pain and ecstasy, first and last breaths, do you listen to them? Your ears are sharp enough to hear the sound of hair, sharply whipped to the side by the flirtatious turn of a woman's head. But do you care?

I wish I was as free as you are. Because there are nights I, too, need to kill. I want to push my nails into someone's eyes till I feel them pop under the pressure and my fingertips are covered by a wet, gelatinous mass. I want to run after a breathless teenager and grab them by the hair-long sweet smelling hair, supermarket shampoo and hopes of getting laid-, stopping the escaping scream with a single, sharp pull. I want to drag them home and tie them up and use knives to carve their flesh. But contrary to me, whenever you get one of those urges you act on it. You do the killings for me and I keep the balance for you. You watch and I keep watch. You destroy and I heal. I destroy in order to build,while you build for time to destroy. Time watches over us both; but I am the tumbling leaf and you the stone.

There is nothing more to say.