an initial intention in immuring impression with intricacy

..finally, you wrote me. subtly spelt in ink, your handwriting's an illegible mess. your hand's been missed, uncomfortably. the way it curves the y and splits even sentences in inefficiently riddled prose is overwhelming.

a few separations ago, we subsidized our familiarity for contempt - an initial intention in immuring impression with intricacy. it outran us just like everyone overtook us, undoing pavement overtures. so what do i expect this envelope? what do i owe this effort? have you finally learnt to manage expectation? to what do we drink tonight..

the morning's grim. the rum evaporating your words. nouns pronounced to unsettle weeks. it demands a reply. maybe grotesque in prose and objective in satire. letters have a knack to unlearn easily. they twist and when unread by the author, leave open an imagination. this one's an exhibition. it simmers greed and inculcates desire - "you made my attitude suffered painfully that evening, cherished every night since". to post must've taken courage, a broken bone in reverence to every evening. its stuck in your whims and my fancies. the author doesn't take the reader for granted, for the author knows how to frame these lines. the sock's delivered before the calm, melancholy ridden ploy. a trait well embodied every time we exchanged back then. its a type i still cannot get used to. for the author doesn't challenge, she merely preserves the unbecoming. some of the best dialogue interchange has bent itself a beat, clawed and extemporized. surfeit in endearment, its unpunctuated to the best of her abilities. it doesn't confirm your company and strokes this heart weary. the enthusiasm is clapping and mending to that bone. a tranche settled out of interest. so i'd be grandiose in explanation too, chipping away on an open field.

she's lying on the grass, eschewing nondescript paragraphs. she clutches the thumb, now a conclave caught in critique. adulation is dressed up too, circumventing my opposition. an imposition one submits to. however, the sun ray's are at a preferred angle, the quickest draw vindicating any hope of harmony. that moment could have been forever, had the hills stood still. that tempting cache of inadequacy, a feeling of guilt she contains and won't admit. its holding us thin. its not the words that make a difference, its the tone. how often has vulnerability been? it needn't. a comatose privy to this despondency. calculating each stab by time, the sentences are deviously serenaded. ah, that uncanny ability to deceit, conjuring indecent theft. you're more than a metaphor in my most important phrase. sleeping on stoned grounds, sunburnt and clipped.

we will meet soon, i'll make myself and we'll hardly say anything at all.

finally, you've written me.

Essentially Wasted And Endlessly Winning.

There's this moribund Jameson bar coaster on his glass table. Quite explainig how today has been. Perennially under the weather, three sheets through witnessing wind. Absorbing every tense of well-built whiskey - satiated and sauteed, now incapable of speech. What made the difference? Having another clue oneself on never being evocative, that much again. For she forgot he wasn't replacement, haplessly frenzied nor awkwardly toe'd on optimism. Was much like stymied strains from an inebriated violin. A violin wicked in the afternoon, judgmental by evening, witless on the midnight and disoriented every minute hence. The coaster's frantic in the middle too, tepid under circumstance and meaningfully rude. They've seen, together, the sky change its colour and bend to placate. They've martyred competition and bundled unhappy thoughts a new bed sheet. At the same time, they have felt alone - lonely - uncourageous to admit missing an occasional sip.

Those were the weeks. Uncultured, rhythmic in enticing clamour. He used to row stories at dusk. Sit through cigarettes and cheap whiskey, tell - tale cars of riot and canvas a pretty picture of tomorrow. He had company, company which commingled interest. Not one to commiserate errors, it used to bring the best out of him. Evoke trains of would-be's and fragment illustrations of ideas they'd dreamt up, previous weeks. The visitors never complained, they'd fortify, rally broken bones. He'd believe them, light another, parading famous yarns. His dresses were incomplete but shoes clean as today. He used to cry, he used to laugh and he was kept on a pedestal in third party chatter, he wanted victory and he used to win.

She wasn't much alone. She did not demand him. She placed herself a step below to begin with, unhinging on his sub conscious, partaking asymmetric rhetoric. Her hair was uncombed, equal delight to disarranged studies. Clothes unmatched and eyes woebegone, pupils smiling on vertical curves. The lips curled at an obtuse angle and met each other in stricken harmony. Those lips knew how to brush themselves against, kiss a stone. They could hold him still, as much as command a cigarette. But it was her hands that mobbed, throwing stones and sticks to his unready melodies. She didn't demean though held him water to her decree. Satisfactorily, she took him out. He did not resent, resist or require. Suddenly, the films he so equated were comforting. Crushed leaves in a tea pot, their delivery was somewhat wrapped. Boxes covered in thought and tapes of hope. They could plot an empire, undo melancholy and unstrap each other at fancy's whims. Music, you ask? Never too loud and always special. The tunes they summarized could tackle a magazine and shame a critic. Of culture they accompanied, making nights memorable. The mornings may have been an aenema in denial, found in summaries best read by those atrophied by our neglect.

So today the coaster is split in between, one hand's a trail of anecdotes; the other side's a bottle of distress. He finds himself stitching possibilities of morning dust, unitching another week of work. See sawing a flute of chance on a vacation unslept, where she is today. He knows not but its somewhere he imagines himself each evening, borrowed mad to a hatter. Its not all crackers in sunshine, he calms his aching nerves while the scent of her awakens him. Weighing against, a combination of waning consolation. Yearning instructions, he shutters the company today as weak, toasted grim on fertile discussion. For stirred sentiment is as suffocating as summers in sorrow. Like spelling mistakes on your most important hand written letter. The need, the smell of unopened envelopes encompassing his mood today. Probably she is wasting time on better things, unhurried/ unworried for his disparaging comments. He pines till the last drop dries itself a dire death. Maybe she is unhappy too...

He knows not what it is he wants to be used to now. He in unsure but slowly, with each sip, getting there. Ideally, love and ideally, lust but its not an ideal world now, is it?

Courtesy.

We've got Cohen's quiet voice eagering us on and my stained sleeves have crumbs stitched wickedly from the lamp. If the song were to switch, it would be injustice to the mood right now. This mood is a cohort of submissions, each broken into little boxes. These boxes contain bearings from different days on which it felt similar. And to be able to dig into what those boxes contain, is the summation of our attachment. How the heart works and how these fingers fiddle, however nonchalantly, brings the memories tumbling down. Each beat renders obsolete and every touch retracts, extracting that unharmed bone. It toys with all the wrong muscles and suffocates our cache of unspoken needs. It asphyxiates me, strangles the stretch. For one should have said those things back then itself, instead of dragging all drab and drizzle. Those were salad days. An attempt to erase everything that happened the previous days. As we'd build, build, break - and soldier on again. For within those submissive tirades and sentences that were juxtaposed, the comparisons were nixed. Those boxes, soiled with gratitude and efforts of discourse, were misplaced. We'd strayed at sea, rapt and neglected in selfish interest. Who can be blamed? Its what happens as we think of then, all rinsed and tuned out - more to others needs than to impressions themselves. How we bunker ammunition at disparaged reflection and then we piece all our whims in rhapsody itself. You're no stranger to our intention, neither one to scrape on worried nerves. You are however wanted, to help me cast a debt furnished from long ago. Because madness has waned and my scheme's dilapidated by the particles from the box. They too've been wrung out and besmeared by jejune fancies we partook on. Its like the whole circus wound along, and we didn't have the decency or courage to settle our receipts. But don't think I'm parlancing an overreaction, I'm merely suggesting we may've obliged and made the lot of them win. Then those boxes, of ambition and vehemence, could have died a natural death. We're unsure of how we need each other today and in a way, that is our uncelebrated victory. Our triumph makes atrophy any sense of modern compassion. You far away, well settled, can afford an immaculate stride while I only coffee and pine for how things should have been. I'm helpless still, you know - forging on those crumbs, stitched perpendicularly on my unclean sleeves.