THEN, WHAT DO YOU DREAM OF?

Inside of the condensed darkness when the others have fallen asleep is when I think the best.

That's when the words come to me in clarity and complete form. Torrential, thorough.

So, if this, for now, is my Room of One's Own I arrange, anew, the little table on my side

of the bed, as that morning's first tea cools. I stack books & notebooks and place a

candle close; a flame for the night, draw an unstudied loop from faint scrape to firm dark

that assures the pen is spirited. I leaf through the pages of the most beautiful of the notebooks,

the linen-covered hefty one that I believe to be empty but for 500 pages waiting.

Only then do I see it's got dark plum purple batik-like stains overflowing

its edges and on the flyleaf, it's written in graphite

Cassius Lemholt Violaris 
gave birth to this book on 11 / 05 / 19
by spilling red wine all over mamma's book.

The wine delicious.
The flavour of the mood bitter.

Papa
x


p.s 


the Candy Boxing Monkey Saga

Cassius - But you're a toy..!
Monkey a.k.a Papa - Yes. But I have a life.
Cassius - Oh. Okey. Then, what do you dream of..?

You know how you know the handwriting of a loved one.
(His letters have the softest edges but follow no rules of capital or lowercase.)
I hold the book, weigh it. I think of how different our together is now.
How we've also deepened into each other, us two. Somewhere among the days
since him, we've become accomplices in the unspoken,
- the sensuality in the gaps when he's asleep, to make love there;
the glances of fear when he's hurt himself, and we're yet to know how badly;
the poorly disguised pleasure of huddling in the bathtub that really is too small for three bodies;
 the significance of the hand stretched out to hold the other's under the covers
when he has entrenched himself in the middle and in between;
the smiling eyes that meet at the sidewalk when he yells
Thank You..! Byeeee..! to yet another bus driver;
the pure joy when he answers that his favourite day of the nursery week
is the one where they go visit the old people in the nursing home down the street;
how the other's voice drops and descends, to disappear like honey
into the night alongside Winnie the Pooh.

And you know how you know when you've found the core.
How you can almost touch an insight once it's finally landed in you.
How obvious it suddenly is.
It's here I have to start. It's because of this I have to start over.
This is where my new narrative comes into existence.
I'm going to fill the most beautiful notebook.






∞

monkey in its own kimono
she delivers flowers by bike in our city
chocolate-coloured cashmere