الخميس، 1 ديسمبر، 2011

Space


Space

Sweet rough sweat; the windows are shut and the glass panes are cold to the touch, a small stubborn sliver of a breeze passes through it to bring in a smell of everything in the street that smells like nothing at all, like air clean of anger, a smell that dissolves quickly in the scent hidden in the details of the warm skin feeling like a delicate rug and sitting so comfortably in a perfume so intimate that has escaped pores and rested in the coarse cracks in  the wood of the table and the delicate planes of the floor as cool shy feet with the smallest hint of dried skin at the heels crawl up to the quilt clumped with heat smelling of laundry and damp with the left over taste of sweet sour grape drops that fell accidently, like the taste in the lukewarm morning breath brushing up against hair that scratches and tickles, damp with the wine at the tips and smelling of autumn and tobacco, that- along with the tips of a chiffon curtain flowing with the tiny breeze and tasting of edible dust – strokes the nooks to bring out another whiff of sweet rough sweat. 




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