We are such delinquents, and what a joy it is to swill that word around our mouths like bad bourbon. So what if we’ve started a few fires? You can walk on water and I can follow in your footsteps. You tread the waves flat and I aim for the shoeprint. It’s easy. It’s so easy.
Because this is what we do. This isn’t an affectation or a hobby or a cry for help. This is why we breathe. Surfing clouds is easy, swimming in a blue sky is easy. Opening our eyes to the rain and letting it drip on our cornea’s without blinking is easy. We run our fingertips through the concrete of a subway and carve our names into the dust and disappointment, and it is easy.
Time to soar, time to beg for more. A handful of hair and a crease on the hip, we collide and disperse, atoms flirting through space and dancing around our charges. I inhale the scents of activity – cheap ass perfume covering the seven days since you last saw a shower, the rich iron of your recent cycle and dry sand in your armpits, in the folds under your knees.
I whip off your dress in one motion, drive a stake through the shoulder hoops, and plant it firmly in the ground, in the name of…. something. Flapping in the breeze we get down to the basic instincts, as the stars revolve above us like voyeurs, trying to appear indifferent but unable to stop staring. I finish too soon – and isn’t that a well told story without a decent ending – but for once you don’t seem to mind. Lying on the beach, our only contact is your ankle crossed over mine. I’m breathing deeply, sticky with all manner of things, but you lie still, absorbing the constellations into your eyes. When I look across I can see them glittering like sunlight on fresh snow, changing with every blink, and every languid puff of your awful smelling cigarettes.
It’s hard knowing someone who only comes out at night. I walk alleyways and shopping centres, fields and forests, trying to find the point of it all, waiting for the sun to die and my hope to rise. But every now and then, under the unforgiving and judgemental glare of daylight, I hear a familiar noise and look up. I see the kite’s flying above, swooping in circles, wings hooked like your shoulderblades, and all is well in this garish, vulgar, unsubtle world.