for little malia and her perfectly cold hands…

“…if i had to only remember one thing about her singular body…it would be, without question…her perfectly cold hands…”


“…her hands were vascular, young and strong. and she held them in an impatient hang at her bobbing and bending elbows, her slender arms and wrists slack like a puppet’s or like a marionette’s, one on its own time, late at night, its master long and gone and fast asleep, its strings hanging in an invisible, limp tangle in the dusty air above its scheming head…and then there were her thin, drifting fingers, narrow and boney, which clenched and danced at her sides, so anxious and delicate…just like her hooded mind and countless, meandering thoughts, thoughts like daggers, escaping her busy head in silver, misty tendrils, shearing the black walls and crawling into these boy’s hearts like ghostly spiders racing and conniving in a manic, robotic stir…

…just once, i told her how perfect and how beautiful i found her hands to be, as i absently reached to gently hold one of her dangling hands in the palm of my own…to which, she abruptly relented, almost if by instinct, startling me as her pallour subtly changed; her smooth, white cheeks reddening ever so slightly…and in that one perfect second, that endless and beautiful instant of visceral and quick regret, i felt her blade of revulsion, as sharp and cutting as the sheer presumptuousness of my idiot intent, my nerves jangled and betrayed for having taken such a blatant liberty; as if this trixter spirit, this night siren was just ANY anonymous girl.”


…but then, soon after letting me pathetically wallow in my wadi g restlessness for a harsh and deserved moment, she gamely held out one of her unique and telling hands and rolled her deep steel eyes, waiting for me to simply oblige her less than casual ovation of mutuality and affection, however perfunctory…it was in that very gesture, one so gracious and so simple, just allowing me the common currency of holding her cool, timeless hand in mine; we, the two of us, so completely different, so totally the same and yet, so much strangers then, yet already very much within, if not underneath the sacred auspices of an ancient ritual of coersive understanding rarely afforded between our often opposing kinds…yet, in that sweet moment, long ago, we, the two of us, she and me were fast friends and conspirators…just a girl
and her dog…”


“…it seemed like hours, if not days, we, the two of us, just standing there, malia and me; two raw souls hiding in the near blindside of one lost windy night, late winter, for no more than one single hot minute, as still as it was calm and slow…every dimemsion of her and of that very perfect instant, singing through me, and right underneath a dull, benefit street halogen lamp…bathed in an orange fire of night air, we two, stared through eachother, the breeze rustling the edges of her shiny, smooth black hair and my mind, my one mind, so totally and irrevocably already transfixed by the simple allure of her azure eyes and the touch of her trembling, unsure hand in mine…

…her perfectly cold hand, through which ran the steady, wanton pulse of her heavy, nomadic spirit; her’s, a vital and bewitching spirit, coursing madly through her like an open prism at dusk, or like the unpressed fields and dales binding the lengths of her endless, cyclical life…a life of illumination, of obscurity, of ritual and ruthless import; and all of it, every exacting molecule contained within that one lost instant, forged then and now between she and me…all of it, passing from her violent, delicate experience and through her soft, long, cold white hand like the red blood of truest trust poured into the vaccuum of otherworldly silence and dread that never again would rule the fringes and backwoods of my very old world and my very new life…”


for malia. xo.

(special thanks to ‘lacrymosa’, for the additional imagery…xo.)

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