Vigil

Vigil

I watch. It is my duty to myself. I watch, and I wonder, and I absorb, and I burn. I am opaque, and I am camouflaged. The slight sway of her hips and the insignificant curve of her breasts wrap me slyly in their covert mastery. Her oblique beauty is seen and esteemed by myself alone; it is hers, but mine; I have built a home for it in my soul. My own shell is safely defended, and she does not spot the part of her which I harbor. Her shelter is protected by mine, an ordinary mixture of mouth and lashes and curves. I hold these sentiments near, passions and dreamings warming them with their gentle fires, kindling them, warming the food I have gathered; sometimes she is dinner, sometimes dessert, but nevertheless always ceaselessly sustaining and intoxicating, in compliance with needs. I fix my eyes on the object beside her, behind her, watching her all the time. I can see her, blurred in the outskirts of my vision, smiling, talking, laughing, working; sometimes I believe the latter is best, for it is then that she is most unguarded, unfocused on anything but her efforts, giving me more freedom to explore the living art before me. Far too many times when she laughs, it is not with me, and when she talks, her words are not always real. But when she smiles, it does not matter if it is intended for me or not; those same beautiful commonplace lips that earnestly recite facts, and tales, and occasionally emotions, could still yet do more. I imagine their dampness on my mouth and on my body, fondly caressing me with their softness, and I believe there is no need for work.

Her soul is a garden, in every respect. I have only glimpsed it enough times to tell which flowers, bushes, and weeds are most prominent, for she opens and shuts the gate very quickly, very quietly, and very unexpectedly. You must be assiduous and silent; you must know where and how to look, how to recognize a sudden glimpse of green amidst common greys and browns. Once you have seen, you do not forget, and each time my eyes rest on her, I search for her hidden flowers, all too often finding only several misplaced, residual weeds. When I do seldom spot an abrupt hint of red or blue, my heart races and absorbs the color like a hungry sponge. She does not like people seeing or entering into her special place, and I sometimes believe she is frightened of it in certain uncharted areas. But I dream of a day when she opens the gates wide, letting me in, embracing me beneath the trees, for so often I have dreamed of simply running freely and barefoot within it, inhaling the crisp air and sweet scents, sinking my toes into the dirt; I imagine making love to her in the grass, the tulips and leaves surrounding us, tiny pieces of green tangled in her thick hair, the birds joining us in our cries of rapture.

These secret workings take place within me, invisible gears turning, turning, producing, destroying, as I am perched innocently at my desk, or in my chair at dinnertime; as I work, as I eat, as I sleep, as I interact, these happenings never cease. They separate me, producing delicate gifts that are visible to only my own eyes. I hoard them madly, for I fear irrationally that they may never return; I fear they will leave me only with an inestimable vacuum, leave me to be alone, void. In my panic, I take snapshots in my mind of her, glimpses of brown amongst the white of winter, a look here, a movement there, and store them safely away to be viewed at my pleasure. They are shallow representations and do nothing to fill my soul, but they appease the aching mind, and for a moment I believe my life is warm, that my existence is satiated.

She kills me by keeping me alive; she is both blood and poison burning through my veins. She is melancholy and blemished joy; I live for the suffocation of simply catching her stare. I gaze unceasingly, nose pressed to the glass, watching her life play before me, witnessing a barricaded world. She does not see me there, or my lingering fingerprints; I do not disturb her, nor do I wish to. This is my place, my duty. I watch. I watch because I have found nothing more nourishing in this world to fix my eyes upon; it is what I know; it is my obligation. It is all I can do. Without my private thirsts and hidden wine I would surely fall, unable to be sustained. She lives, and I hang suspended in infinite wait. But I do not wish to cut the rope. I fear death, for there I know I surely will not find her.