mended

It has been a while since we last sat by the fire and had a good chat. It has been a while since I wondered along the river Thames and felt nothing at all besides the emptiness of the street and the coldness of the blood in my veins. It has been a while since I confessed my perversions without saying a word. It has been a while since I wrote while thinking of you. It has been a while since I wrote you a letter. It has been a while since we have caressed each others egos. It has been a while since I felt the thirst that your presence inspires.

i think. sometimes. maybe. all i need is the smallest of all gestures, and then i am calm again. you show up in the remotest corner of my horizon, you are peace. oh, i do not understand this, and i am delighted in my lack of understanding. would we be able to access solitude and silence in the nurturing arms of each other's respect?

Now i remember the cold blood in my veins. it's summer, it rains. I walk barefoot out on the bare stones and the Thames is far away. You continue to be my muse. I continue to be the autistic being. I am wrapped by that other public persona who embraced solitude. We are in each other's arms. We never left each other's cradle.

Illusion, delusion and denial return and I tell myself that I am mended. I tell myself all the lies in the world, and on rare occasions I  believe one or the other. Those lies that I tell myself and believe in, they are opium. They make me feel good in the oblivion of no memories and no past. I am in love with no memories. I am tormented by the recollection of the gems and their sparkle that blinds my eyes.

I hear thunder out over our village. I listen to the rain splattering on the roof. I hear the water murmuring all over the yard. The stones are wet. I walk on the stones. I walk under the rain and dance. Just dance. Just forget. My autism has me locked inside, unexplained, unrestrained, preordained, self-contained. Not broken.