Little Nothings

How much does a kiss cost? Those received from someone who loves you can make you a millionaire. Those withheld from someone you love can leave you a pauper.
Is some--thing better than nothing? He seemed to think so. I never did. I knew better.

How tender is the touch from a lover--unlike that from any other. A simple hand brushed on the face, the curve of a breast against a chest, a gentle touch of a forearm reaffirming their connection, a firm hug around a shoulder, the breath that brushes by two waiting lips, or the eyes that speak and touch the soul. These are the heart of passion--the island that only those who have read each other like no others ever may travel to and exist on--set apart from the rest of the world in perfect isolation. No one can know their language; it is not meant to be shared or understood, for if it were to be understood then it would be destroyed, and the lovers would cease to be lovers; they would become ordinary like those who see only what stands in front of them and those who feel only what they can touch and those who hear only when it is convenient, and those who taste only what is mass produced. For you see, lovers have no time to be ordinary--their senses are much too busy and their language is much too full, and truly they cannot fit into the masses.

You see them when you are out to dinner and or out in the park. They are the ones you look at and wonder about. They are the ones holding hands, touching each other--their bodies curve towards one another when they walk. They are smiling. Often they are whispering things to one another, and you are wondering what it is they are saying to each other--was it something sexual? Or was it just something that they two share between themselves--you know--a private joke--maybe something they said during “pillow talk.”
It is very difficult not to watch them, especially when you are alone, or if you have had a lover once yourself and do not have one now. The memories. Yes. It brings back all those thoughts of what you had--what you lost--what you want to have again and wonder if you ever will--or worse--it reminds you of what you never had and always wanted. Either way, these lovers can be pretty annoying, or poignantly painful if you allow yourself to get lost in your voyeurism, and yet some how it seems to become an addiction each time a set sweeps pasts you. Why? Why can’t you let go of that language once spoken and no longer in your vocabulary?

Was it because it felt so good rolling over your tongue as you pronounced each word? Or because knowing a special language unfamiliar to others made you feel special and not ordinary? Or maybe it is because your body just doesn’t curve the same way any more and you miss that fluidity when you walk because, for you, ordinary is just too stiff and you were never much into watching?

On the sidewalks, in the cafes, leaning up against the buildings, in the car parked next to you when you come out of the coffee shop—there they are—saying hello—saying goodbye, and never speaking a word, and yet their voices are deafening as your heart starts to ache, your skin begins that need again and you want to leave, so tired of it all—so tired of not being all you are because your senses were pealed opened once and no cover has ever quite replaced that joyful ache, so you keep looking for the right salve to soothe and console. Why not just give up? Let the wounds heal the best they can. Stop hoping. Stop hurting. Just stop breathing.