Exsanguination, population 2 (retrospectively)

by Charlotte E. Wilde

Yesterday weakness saw its way to strength but today strength wished many times for weakness. Three days to waste, were we to break? Physical symptoms down cycles of blood that cleanse lingering traces or fragmented tastes still floating in the stream of unconscious. Three days to wash away but we’ve been holding out, not on.

Still, I remember how wistful thinking over motor-oil coffee didn’t blink your eye, and lingering grounds were grounds for laugh when we sat wanting, wishing for a breakfast made of sterner stuff than Cartesian eggs ordered easy but served hard. And no, my floor’s not clean enough for five-second tongues… nor am I. But how maybe you thought rules were bent to be broken and those whispered words sank slow.

Three days to an addiction, did it not drown? Thoughts washed away as a reluctant shower or Monday mo[u]rning meant for one— but they linger longer, leaving washed up ‘no-wake’ memories to transform as after a storm to greener pastures, not greener grass.

Remember glaring yellow post-its in your sigh: ‘I’m tone deaf to hummed happiness, honey,’ I read. But hunger licks flames, toasting tangible feelings of an emptiness and all the milky ways I’ve filled myself with bowls that snap, crackle…but do not remember the multitude of reasons why nutrition was equally as important for the soul.

Can one starve for a person, a thought, or a moment? Such sentiments remain restricted to the asylums of the mind where the sun forgets the way you sound, or smell— soft like steady rain on windows and fear of thunderclaps that resonate, reverberate in my chest, having never known you that way, herself.

Inevitability still lies sticky on our horizon: sinking, setting, swiftly closing in with darkness, where erasure eliminated, eradicated temptation, if only theoretically. Ignored coins flipped tails on full speed ahead but such tales always take themselves to the letter and heads are heavier than a heart hoping for the best of two out of three.

Yesterday weakness saw its way to strength but today strength has wished for weakness many times, and again. But ignorant wishes were no less ignored, no less cyclical for two tropical minds.

So pleas[e] just turn away, there’s nothing to see here but a chalk outline seeping on pavement where electricity flashed and one small shivering sigh: the remnants of a crime, access restricted to an [ex]sanguine nation, population two– the scene where we were, but no longer are, and can only wish to be.

Three days? Right…