I've been feeling strangely overwhelmed. No. Not overwhelmed, precisely... Rather... Overpowered. I've been pretty much just sitting around for a few days. Reminds me of about a year or two ago when Seb kept walking in on me just watching my flexing fingers. He asked once: "What are you doing?" and I said: "Just making sure I'm still there."
I wrote this original first person descriptive piece back when I was in a similar mood in the middle of June. At First it was a blocky paragraph, I cut it down this way, but I'm not sure the poetry disguise fits the piece accordingly. I'm thinking of putting it back into a normal paragraph.
Tears of no use
He asks about the bucket of water.
I tell him it’s all the tears that I’ve cried
while he was gone.
He looks despondant as he says
there couldn’t possibly be that much.
Could there?
I answer that he wouldn’t know, really.
His teeth clicks as he closes his mouth,
a retort dying in his dry mouth.
My right hand plunging into the clear water,
coming up dripping.
I shake off the worst of it,
with a quick and harsh flick of my wrist,
before rubbing the cool water on my left tigh.
He remains still and silent,
I repeat the gesture on my right tigh
and just as I’m about to wipe my hand on my clothes,
he rapidly strides across the room towards me,
grabs my forearm forcefully.
Slowly, his dark gaze shifts
from my glistening fingers
to my eyes.
I simply look up at him,
my face screaming bitterness.
He then raises my hand towards his face.
A few droplets of water slide down my now upright arm.
I tear my eyes from his gaze
to watch them drip down and pool at my elbow
and I shudder as I feel him lick languidly at my pinky finger.
He lets go of my arm with a disdainful shove
and there is a splatter of water on my right cheek.
Both of my arms fall limply to my sides,
my right hand splashing loudly in the bucket,
my whole body sags.
He says the water is not salty.
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