Daniel Molloy

Daniel Molloy

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"You don't even let me read those"

[Mar. 4th, 2009|11:18 pm]

[	Tags	\|	daniel molloy, private post for armand	]
[	Current Mood	\|	nostalgic	]

I like to touch. From the very moment we enter existence in this planet, in this sorry life of ours, we begin to learn through sense of touch. There was something so delicate about touching the soft side of a woman, that flesh, golden honey with a hint of pink, smelt of strange fragrances, whatever perfume she had adorned herself with. Maybe it was just the smell that clung to her clothes though. A hint of spice to send a rush through your senses, the urge to taste, to press your mouth to her own, or maybe lower, against that side you'd just been caressing. Soft kisses, gentle sucking, the occasional nip of the skin. I quickly learned through practice, I like to touch.

I'll never forget that moment though. Was it the liquor that entwined lips together? It wasn't the same as the lips of her. I say her as if there is a name, some woman from the past that still rings loudly in my memory. There may have been, there may not have been. She was faceless, nameless, she was only gender. It wasn't the same as her. It was different and it was better, because behind it there was something more. It's never just a kiss. It's never just a moment. It was those lips, I longed for them, to touch them, to taste them. To taste him, for him to linger on my own. It broke my heart before it had a chance to properly know how to beat, why didn't I know? Why didn't I see it coming? I can't truthfully say that if I did know it ahead a time things would have happened differently... My logic tells me I would have tried to prevent it, but our meeting was supposed to happen. Those eyes of yours, big brown beautiful orbs, those lips, lush full a small pout, that hair, long and to caress, all of it to draw me to want to touch you, to feel you, know you, hold you. It broke my heart in my confusion. It rang in my ears and shot down my spine. That chilling sense of acknowledgment. That sense of though I was confused I knew I wanted to be no where else.

You're in my head. Your mouth hot against my own, passionately locking onto my lips. The water is pouring from the shower head, my eyes closed in my false sense of heat, a blanket that I have wrapped over myself until the tank has drained. I can see you though, my eyes shut and you are there. Pushing you against the wall of the shower so your chest is covered with the warm water my finger tips pressing heavily against your sides, tracing down the curves of your body, memorizing you. I want to know you inside and out. Know your trigger points, where to press to please you most, where to avoid. Your hair damp and wet, clinging to your skin, your neck, across parts of your chest and shoulders. Pushing it back, always moving your hair away from your face. I wouldn't have you any other way. Lips hard pressed to your shoulder. I don't want to fuck you. To please you though, to hold on to you ever tighter, caress you, you are mine.

How many hours until this illusion breaks? I am not at our home. I am not in our shower. Purgatory it feels. Would I rather burn in hell? Grace myself with the light of heaven? Or to stay here... In this delightful torture where your memory still lingers in my lips, on my arms. Human like flesh, not nearly as strong as what I have now. To feel your cool hands over my body, even when you were merely washing me. I am in hell to remember and hell to forget. I want it all. I plague myself as if you are not in the next room, my eyes open and we are not on that road that leads to Pompeii proper to the Villa of the Mysteries, you are not wearing blue cotton and dirty denim. You are somewhere else for the moment and I am sitting in the middle of the balcony on the ground, books and notebooks scattered around my legs and feet. I want my memory back. I want your lips. I want...want...Now you have you have one page from a book of notes, a personal recollection.

This was painful to write, but there, I've told you my mind, I wait for yours.

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Mirrors	[Feb. 20th, 2009\|11:05 am]
It's worth it. That's what they say, don't they? That anything worth having is worth fighting for. Casualties aside. It's worth it. I see how things have begun to draw thin, kicking some piece aside while gently escorting others. The mirrors are multiplying now. We still have four but behind each one is an endless tunnel, it's infinite, just as our choices are. Train your eye, focus it, and look at the tunnel again. You can easily place yourself in each panel. I can place myself in each corridor, clear as the moon in the sky. Don't speak. Just move. Is that how the greatest ballets are played out with nothing but motion? Silent words. Words aside when there seem to be none needed. Questions though, there are always questions. Why do we not speak? Why do we simply move? My sleep felt heavier, mind more attune to what my body was saying before an unconscious like state takes over. I awake. Mirrors still in place. Tunnels still open and a buffet of choices are still laid flat. It's not just me though, train your eyes, focus them and find it yourself. Half way through and my hand no longer has the will to push the lead against the paper. Recline back and close my eyes once more. Try again in a few hours.
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Look right through me	[Feb. 15th, 2009\|11:04 am]
Seemingly problems come up from the wood work wherever I bring myself. Even now in a new city, a new place the faces are the same. The feelings are the same. She says it's always been there and that it's just been something I've suppressed, bad memories, bad experiences. I say, if it's always been there why has it taken four hundred years and only come out now? Or was it never meant for another, was it always supposed to be there for now, for these circumstances? He says, you can stop being a little bitch now, he takes pride in being an asshole, I say nothing. It's always hardest when you know you're doing something wrong but can't bring yourself to stop. It's always hardest when you want that thing the most, when you're begging yourself to see reason, see logic, walk away when you should, but fact of the matter is you don't want to. We've stewed, we've edited, we've rewritten. Do you remember our first draft? It was madness, madness and circles, a man trapped in a pane of glass, a man trapped in a country far off, a man trapped. Bound by emotion, confusion, confliction. What about now though? What do we see now? We see four. With mirror panels creating four more, and again they reflect, constantly multiplying, constantly growing. It's endless. I find it hard to tell you, I find it hard to take, when people run in circles it's a very very, mad world. I don't know why I walked away. She was there though, at the door, an image of grace. Little emerald like gems peering up at me with a rouge smile, faint but there. A nod of my head and it was over. No words. No thoughts. Acknowledgment however, it was there. It should have phased me more but even now as I lie in my bed he is in my arms. I won't know guilt for that, only an ever so small piece of mild regret that I did walk away.
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ache

[Feb. 13th, 2009|11:01 am]

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Current Mood

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Confusion, I wish the word held more gravity to it, I wish the word could properly convey the feeling that it invokes inside of the mind as well as the heart. That dead lifeless thing that sits in my chest. Lifeless and yet it still aches and longs for solace when there is clearly none to be had. There is no answer to my riddles. She says I must not fence in my emotions and allow them to eat away at me, that I must face them and move past them, though she didn't say that second part, perhaps it was simply implied.

I am terrified by a man who stands in front of me because he is intriguing. I'm told it is only my reflection though. Madness enfolds around me and I am left sitting in the same spot that he left me in, curious, confused, and lost. There is a man I wish to speak to but it has been years and I am unsure if I could face him. Face him...I could not. He has his paintings and his scrolls, he has his beauty as well. I have my freedom and yet I feel chained but not by a person or steel bars hard and gripping against my flesh. Chained by emotions that long to spill out and yet as I have for years upon years I would first cut the lining of my mouth before I spoke aloud.

Yet I write these thoughts here because I do not wish for another to read my emotions this evening as one has already done and I'm sure a second would like to. Make them plain and simple, easy, black and white, readable. Reflection comes later, but not till we've stewed and edited, deleted and rewritten. It's a holiday weekend, isn't it? St. Valentine's Day. You should all be out with your lovers, writing small notes and slipping them into pockets or purses, hiding small trinkets for them to find when the least expect it. Not reading the ramblings of man far strayed from his own path.

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