twice or thrice, there is a sigh on the wind when it feels like someone’s yearning from several years ago has come to brush upon your cheek.
that is what these deep sighs are, these large hunks of hair that we pull inside ourselves, only to let go when they do not fill any of those craters of inner want, those bastard ulcers of deprivation, destitution. except that once inside, these minute particles of carbon dioxide and oxygen of nothingness begin to feed upon this inner hidden knowledge, and then, form themselves, by witnessing what no one else could, those inner parts, those gaping red sores boiling with want and need or confusion, some temporary, some permanent, that so many try so hard to articulate, as i try here and now, but never will or could. except that this air, comes out alive then, formed like prophets, out of nothing, crimson, sacred, having borne witness to the existence of the denied, the abandoned, the relished, the unproven.
so that is what it is, several years later, against your face, that selfsame hunk of air, pinked almost out of existence, trying again, to know, to remember lest it forgets, lest it dies, coaxing itself around your breath, allowing its fading colour to be sucked in through your nostril. remind me, it says, allow me to exist again, to get off on my own sanctity, for it can only happen could i witness, again, that existence of nothing within you, what no one else can. show me your wretched, goddammit. let me inside to bear witness to your fucking lacks, again.
and you allow it then, this dying, fighting air, to reach inside, to see the old holes that birthed them closed, sewn hastily or crusted over with perverted replacements (other stories, all of them). then, for the dying air to delight upon and suck up, like thirst, those new liquid potholes of red loss promising existence. red like immortality, red like conception.
for what are we to do, but?