Omiai

There are things you talk about when you talk about running. Terms you use when you whisper about kissing. Currency words, unique identifiers.
Passkeys.
There is a look that a lover will give you when they want your touch, but don't want to hear themselves saying it out loud.
A nod of the chin, a curling of a lip.
Criteria to be judged. An idea introduced, like iegara from a trusted Nak┼Źdo.
Hashikake, the bridge.
Onegai Shimasu, the request.
Omiai, the meeting.
"The problem is that you never give me anything." She wrote. "Or to
put it more precisely, you have nothing inside that you
can give me."
All I have is the tone of your voice. Pictures on a refrigerator. Letters and postcards. A ring on a keychain. The flavor of sugar and cream. Ink on a wrist. A bobby pin on a bedside table, forgotten in haste to get back home before the absence is noticed..

We unite these things. Bring them together in our minds like little arranged marriages between practical items and emotional memories.
Separate, but equated.
Reminders in the music. Messages electronic. All but meaningless to the strangers we encounter in the lives we lead alone. Cultures apart, lost in translation
..like passing whispers on a crowded street.

[Listening to:  NIN - "Every Day is Exactly the Same" ]

Comments

anitra said…
i see your inspiration has come back with full force. you are an artist with your words, my friend.
wigsf said…
As a lonely lonely guy, reading this hurt me, deep down inside, where I'm soft, like a woman.

The fact that your writing can evoke such a response is proof that it's good writing. However, my response is feeling like shit. I don't like to feel like shit. So I place blame on you!
Monster said…
The hastily forgotten bobby pin - holy cow that one took root.

Bravo brother.
LaFcuk said…
I left my bobby pin in the soap dish in his shower...bastard.