Sunday, March 15

Of me and my Rainbow

One appears in the middle of the night. I recognise it first as a nightmare. It grips me in its fascinating fear, till I am suffocating and on the verge of realisation. Sweet water flows down my throat. I gulp my own saliva along with it. It takes on hues of violet moon casting shapes of my books on my walls. When I touch them, they feel wet, oozing with something. Definitely not blood, not cum. I only brush against a sticky indigo ointment tube which seems to have a gaping hole, there where I was expected to plug it. My blue quilt covers me snugly, and I try to feel the warmth of my body. I know now I am playing with myself, yet there's a green flashlight within me which somehow reveals the oxidised copper, and which expects me to start lemoning it right then and there. I know the night is warm and long, and I am alone: there might be a city full of orange neon signs outside, but what matters is that finally I am with her. It's a red singing voice of the angel who came to save me. The angel who will keep me for all time.

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11:22 am  

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