The Man
-
Into the incandescent.
.
SHE LEAVES BEHIND THE ACHE OF HER AND I CAN FEEL NO MORE SAVE JETLAG, OZONE, AND SOME GRACELESS SHADOW PRETENDING TO BE HER CURVED HEEL.
My name is Griffin—
IT FEELS BIZARRE ON THE TONGUE, AND IT ALWAYS WILL.
Here. He is male. Here threads tight the scent of some male and primal violence, fists wrung so tight in leather they threaten to burst. And at a military posture, he scrapes 6'0", with the weight of an appropriately sized kickboxer to support it. Where he exercises, I don't know. (He won't say, but his mornings are particularly blurry, particularly as he's more keen on drinking the sea than anything.) His wardrobe is heavy, and fine, and fastened together with completely inappropriate informality. An old wealth clings to him in minute, subtle ways, spotted in eclectic taste, charity, recklessness, or fashion.
He is covered in dark bandages and gloves to match.
LAMBSKIN AND WOOL.
His voice carries some presence, travelling low as if drowning.
ANGRY INTONATION, SHARP, DEFLECTING CONSONANTS CUT TO KNIVES. SONOROUS AND YOUNG, BUT WEIGHED DOWN WITH IMMENSE, PRESSURIZED TIME.
Ambergris cologne, or some similar rain-drenched, earth scent, sticks to him like thorns.
AMBERGRIS. OUD. TOBACCO & VANILLA. SCOTCH & LIQUEURS. TARNISHED SPOON METAL & MEDICAL SCENT BARELY HIDDEN BY WINE.
I AM SHIPWRECKED ON SEAS THAT KNOW NO PORT OR LAND.
I am writ throughout history—
—as that No one, this Nobody.
Perfectly invisible in the good company of Time.
I HAD A DREAM OF PACHELBEL OR A SUMMER BREEZE CONSTRUCTED ON A FRAGRANT GREEN, A MELODY STRUNG THROUGH PAPYRUS REEDS THAT SOUNDED SO SIMILAR TO— MEMORY— I HAD A BREATH THAT TASTED LIKE HER, WANDERED ITS HANDS IN THAT WAY THROUGH GRASSES SKIRT-SHORT, AND ANKLE-BITING, AND LICKED WITH ALL THE GOLD OF SUNKEN PIRATE TREASURE— I HAD A DREAM SHAPED IN WAYS I REFUSED TO REMEMBER, MADE OF GONE SPRINGS AND THE BITTER ACHE OF THUNDER, IF MEN COULD BE STORMS, AND WOMEN PHANTOMS, AND FAMILIES REALLY MERELY GRAVESTONE.
& there I remain, happily.
HERE WE REMAIN
SO DANGEROUSLY.
I'M BURNING FAST. LAMP OIL SITS ON THE ARMOR DISGUISED AS MY FACE; I'VE NO MORE EYES SAVE FOR BLIND MEMORY OF THINGS I THOUGHT I HAD. MEN OWN NOTHING BUT THE SOOT ON THEIR HANDS.
DREAMING OF NOTHING BUT DEAD DAYS, AND SILENCE, AND VIOLENCE, AS I WASTE AWAY.