Salty

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Romance  |  House: Booksie Classic

Memories of an old man.

Memories with a bitter taste of the salty past.

Once, I used to love.

It was not a mere feeling, it was beyond the usual human interaction. This love was more of an instinct of a veiny albatross tethered to its nesting place. This reckless love erased all my memories, all my life before.

Before meeting Her.

My love was a killer for any rational, cold-blooded mind. It killed my world, and I was happy to die again and again. She was the only reason to forget whatever was there, around me, around all of us – those who never left Her.

Help me, Lord.

Her universe was no place for grounded intelligence. The base of Her very nature was located in numerous shy smiles, the smiles that never stretched Her mouth too wide; in Her hair touched and caressed by the city wind. She was thin and tall, and lovely, and forever young. How torturing it is to recall the vulnerable image of Hers now! What an anguish it had been to touch her! So painfully sweet. Her ghost, Her shadow is now in front of me, here, in the godforsaken place.

Only Poseidon never abandons these shores.

I think a tiny fragment of Her soul is guarding a senile sleep of mine. And had been guarding for all those years.

In the cold-dark, pre-morning twilights hours I'm sure I've seen Her. At the moments, barely noticed by the human eye, when all the dreams are leaving my dotage, half-dead mind, I can see Her. It's an ephemeral figure, almost deformed, dancing on the breeze like some piece of the divine lace. She is inhaling my old man's resignation, a bitter doom of a dying person. Aging spares no one, especially those who watch it.

Nobody is afraid of the end of the path. But everyone is scared by the ugliness, by the weakness the aging brings.

Those who are young and beautiful...they don't want to lose their treasure of life, of the time they have – and I can't blame them. They are not wrong at all.

One can say that there's no ugliness at all, it's not a sin and it doesn't determine your inner world. Maybe, that's true. But it does influence your fate. Every vagrant, every homeless dog would jump at you if you're clothed in deformity and accompanied by the stench. A self-caring instinct would make them do that, and that's not wrong either.

But She... Oh, She never could jump at anyone but normal people; She mocked ordinary men, called them cowards; She despised all the foundations of the outer world. And it let Her despise itself, it was letting Her tiny feet trample the ground where flowers grew after Her every step. The world was ashamed by Her existence, She enjoyed tormenting the world with Her strange, unique affections absolutely unaccepted in society.

She was our Proserpine to gift us the sweetest spring and the hottest summer.

My fairy, She was singing on the stage, She loved the microphone with its silver shining and melchior body. Fabulous as all Her dresses were. She was singing about the passion for life, about basking in the sunshine, about the lovely sight of San-Francisco; singing about a young sailor married to his job and marine depths, about an old bartender married to the bottle. Every single song, every note, and every tune suited Her as if created to serve Her and no one else.

The world was trying to fit Her but failed. She was too good for it.

Cigarette smoke and feather boa, glinting laughter and kisses – never air ones, but the real – wrapped Her. Anyone's but Her coins in the pocket were a favorite toy to play with, She was shaking it like a glass of wine. She was a skilled huntress and every prey in Her trap was gifted by Her love.

My endless body is a part of this Universe,

I'm swimming and swimming, but where am I? Where?

I can't find myself, though it's been a while,

There's a wet, long path behind.

A path of lovers and bed girlfriends;

I am the center and they are the outer layer.

I can dance with my love, I am a slayer.

I hope there's some sense,

I wish to find myself.

Before I reach the chaos.

Where...

Now when my nails are more yellow than this old piece of Her notebook, I am terrified with the idea... I was afraid. I was afraid to watch deeper than She allowed. I was afraid I wasn't love more than others, I didn't get more or less of Her than others. We were equal.

Sure, I wasn't uglier, was not the ugliest. There were many people She had slept with, She never warned about Her polygamy nature. She was... She just was. And soon, when Her new prey discovered their non-exclusivity, nothing changed. No one could become filled by Her love, no one was brave enough to break away from Her nipples. It was a color of roasted almonds, those tiny soft pearls on Her breasts.

She was a trap, an abyss, desired to be taken by. An abyss that started to look at you first, and then – God help me again – She found something inside all of us, something hidden too well to be seen by others.

I wished to be the fire to evaporate sweet juice of love from Her.

My Goddess, Sylph of my dreams, She never left us trapped by unspoken lust. She found us, She gathered us. She was feeding us with Her love.

Sometimes, She used to put off all of Her clothes, and then, with a long cigarette holder stuck in Her lips, She would lay down on the floor. And we like some bunch of blind puppies, poked Her naked body with our lips and noses. We were never enemies to each other, but we never shared love. Everything was only for Her.

We were waiting for Her touch, waiting our turn to get inside the volcano. We sacrificed ourselves to Her. Gave every drop of energy to find new powers in the morning.

And then...

She disappeared.

Some of us got Her photos, others were lucky to have Her records. And I was lucky to have a tiny piece of yellow paper, only lines on it. No signature, nothing more. But I knew Her handwriting. And for the first two months, I was smelling Her scent, flowers, and wine.

A betrayal, that's what happened. She betrayed our ugly dreams, She broke our love and our hopes. All of us – Her personal freakshow – had forgiven Her, No child may save an insult towards their parent, and we could not keep anything but sweet memories. We were, we are and we will love Her till our last breath.

Now, my bones are cracking louder than the dry branch of an old oak. And I can't feel any desire and lust. I'd be happy to let my body recall all of those delightful shudderings, seizure of passion. How great would it be to warm this senile husk up! To forget about my age, to leave this empty life for fair gardens of golden pleasures! So that William Blake and his Heaven and Hell would be jealous in their marriage!

But all I can do is visiting this cold cliff open to all winds. Every day I hold this little yellow piece of paper and think, and think, and think...

I'm watching albatrosses, watching their greedy hunt for fish, and think.

I'm watching hermit crabs, their generations are fast to come and go. And I think.

She, my fairy, She was no water to give birth for all those feelings.

But She was the crystals of salt evaporated off the water. Little mineral, vital gem. For hundreds, thousands of years humanity has been using salt to make the meal better. Yes, yes! She was nothing but salt. She made my life better.

But the salt suits meal only.

It should not get into open wounds.


Submitted: January 23, 2021

© Copyright 2021 Al Pollon. All rights reserved.

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