These things writing, saying, they breathe, he said. Lately that.

I know what you’re thinking, he said. You’re thinking when the night strikes it’ll be like daylight did and sundown’s when the breathing starts, lately. Multichroma seen felt under optic fingertips, the smooth stark darkness marked by jagged light sketches and it’s inhale for more color, exhale for more touch. In black, out thought, in grays, out feeling, etched in negative, darkroom-exposed and consciously underdeveloped because too clear is too clear and too clear is dull.

You’re thinking oh the ironies, clear and dull, and you’re also thinking it’s for endless night you wish because in the wish it makes perfect sense for your breath to bleed and fingers to think while they trace thoughts felt out across measured vacancies and infinite shadows, vital and ghosting.

You’re thinking she’ll appreciate how nothing feels more than deep night-pending purple when words no longer have to hold color but are it even if she doesn’t understand. Even if, she’ll know, words = color, and you’ll tell her that for once in your life you disagree with Miłosz and for once in their lives everyone should disagree with a poet and you’ll forget to tell her why but you’ll remember “the props of comparison and metaphor” aren’t necessary and she’ll appreciate because she’ll know words touch too.

That’s right, how right that is, I say, right now. But the sounds too, the sounds have colors just like words do and they all somehow have touch and maybe it’s touch that holds it all together and in my dream I was fighting and clawing and rattling my cage to a hard soft black light rhythm till I heard a light sing-song singing layered on my darkness and singing only with tone and pitch and no words, singing only that the colors have texture and sound and that’s what feeling is, the tone and pitch of color and touch.

And in my dream I was wide awake and the colors had texture and sound, and these words they do breathe, they do feel, speaking back and for once I caught them and with them touched her.

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About mischa

I write things about stuff, and sometimes stuff about things. Depends on the day.