Just as all the content on this site, this text belongs to Lilian Evans.

A deafening wave of slight smoke and blush, polluting my blanded skies OR mind. A silence as loud as your wheels remained — a wanting grew. For through the tainting haze, we locked. I knew. I beaconed. For us to be alone — in my head. An invitation of crimson dew we spoke about you, your marks of use, your purpose, the way your flat plane moved in the winds — your enchanting — on a screen. An enquiry, for me, to possess you, in a way, one that will never be.

Enough.

An exchange. You came.

Or I just paid. I wait. I think I'm insane —

such catalysed by you. Of course.

It's like you're here, even if just as a parcel on a liquid crystal pane — it keeps us apart and yet brings us forth.

For whom else would dig this deep. A spade, jackhammer or digger maybe? I think you are — crushing — that which protects mine — for scars — from cuts never healed right, remain upon reddened planes and veins of such, one may call a heart.

One which screams for your port.

You're all I think, I feel. I hope.

I hold — A picture — Of you — Inside —I hear — A word — For you(re) — Never ending — I hope you(r) — heart beats — For your — Same as I —

I wait —

I wait —

I wait —

I wait —

I theorise, I guess. In that time, that which we spent apart — we were written after all, so this is normal, to wonder…

For when I met you — as just a glaze of light from something so unnatural — I never would have known that moment just,

a frantic haze of uncertainty — one’s fatal flaw — for when we met, I felt a feeling so opposed to its means — of use — as sadness could never have been that day, yet sadness is all you know/ I think/I don't.

For when I met you, your purposeless shell lifted off that which you were, tortured.

I changed, I think, or maybe I just —

Not in a way of words. Not physical or pure.

But amongst the crowd OR crowded ruins even, of palletised thicket, you lay OR rest OR settle upon such horrid copse.

Such choice I may question, if I weren't already consumed, your roots in my land once dreamed now made true.

I still wait.

“Futile are the winds” that bring you to me. I take from the wind, withholding its poise, I pull and pull and pull. It sends me to flight. I see you, a number interspersed with letters. I saw — made sore from my lack. Fucking get here already.

Upon the slowest night you cannot flood that which floods, for when something floods, it's flooded. I lay here — drowned. A slight burning — I lie — it's/we’re ablaze in the dark. Unstoppable. Forced.

But what happens when an unstoppable force meets an immovable object?

An exchange. You came — for real this time. For its real that when we became just that, we, my lover, the side of a lorry.

For when I took you — your lineage tainted with saccharine ultramarine twistings that suffuse your limp body —

I untie.(d)eciphering what lies beneath such a harshened state. Your furrowed brow becoming flat, I watch you growing larger and larger with every slight touch, unraveling you is such bliss, for such willful ignorance I hold. Your leaden form formidable against mine - each helping paw at you, depleting me — “and now I'm covered”. Your ivy tightening around my neck, my physical frame collapsing — I can’t hold you; I can't push you up, I can’t do this anymore. I think of you, your strength, your grandeur, what you endure, I pull through, you're in my arms cradled, clutched in the palm of my hands.

I strike you — fixed. Forever, if I decide. I see you, the you we created — nothing to which I could have prepared.

From when I theorised, I now know — with each touch I admire such burn — of mine fire to yours. Chemical, physical, divine. False. ly I find, our worlds entwined. A thorn of your mineral rose pierced into mine of flesh. Bittersweet the pleasure and pain, to hold you up, pin you against the wall — a sadistic entwine of limbs — for where I cause you holes you gash and tear, each catch agony.

A tickled pink blush lies upon my cheeks, none came naturally — a gentle scratch made by you, for me — a numb pain, a slighted burning. But what comes with “Wild nights!” as this? For when you're with me, your ship OR lorry, moored OR parked OR parted that sea — the one with just you — and flooded me with such a crisp clear trickle that is your presence. No reddened droplet can fight such a flood. Such elixir fuels that which burns inside, for pleasure cannot be without pain. How bittersweet that is.

“You cannot put a Fire out” — for you are an object, of my desire — you are “A Thing that can ignite” that has ignited a fire between. Take me, consume me, use me for your will, cover me in you. And leave no part of me untouched by desire. “Tell your Cedar Floor” for we will spread, and root and rise if you care enough to acknowledge I…

/

I have never said to know your side of things

Nor, when “Travellers tell”, your story as something so disclosed to mine.

“How those old” grounds of which and means of those. I don't know —

“Private”

You say OR speak OR don’t — I think —

“I have intended to write you”.

I am yet to receive and yet I “Bear with”, for me, I mean I deceive.

“for when I can, I shall write”—

Yet words I wish to say come out in whispered rite,

Gone with which elements often come forth, foresite.

For with fire, and forest, I flood,

I surrender.

In each tickling breath I might, just wonder. A world in which you gift to me, a bouquet of such — or even a word or three, “The flowers are sweet”, and bright, “And appalling” — to be redacted — strikethrough me for I am the water for your rolling ship, “lest I should seem to have turned away from a kiss” —

A current from your advance,

A willow, “bent right to your wind”

“Count me out”. If the stillness is sick.

“If the stillness is Volcanic”

For a feeble human as I

When upon a curtained side

How does one know their place — is such artifice?

Are you “a mythical thing”?

“Few have been given me, and if I love them so, that for idolatry,

they are removed from me – I simply murmur gone, and the billow

dies away into the boundless blue, and no one knows but me, that

one went down today. We have walked very pleasantly – Perhaps

this is the point at which our paths diverge —”

I'm a bait and switch — you are just a work of art

/

You were just a work of art, I should say. For I tore you down from that high horse, ripped your head from the clouds - I am done. Wrapping your feeble form in black silken plastic, taping you up in a cross, like the martyr you are, OR you used to be, now just a slab of lorry

-curtain bought for me.

See I have never lied to you, and yet a lie is all I was OR am to you and you to me. I live(d) a performance, a play for this love of ours, our fleshful tragedy made brief. I swear I really believed, the masquerade of hyperbole, it fueled me — a story OR narrative OR tale, turned warning for those who are like me, willed to live a pain like no other.

It's fine.

“They’d judge Us – (anyway)

How –

For You – (i) served / – You know,

Or sought to –

I could not –“ truly deal –

with you OR me. So let's trample each clouded memory, each wandering thought - visionary - I may have of you and you may have of me. Let's end together from where we began — empty. I just wanted you to respond to me.

Nothing.

Forbidden fruit your flavour is, and that which belongs to you seethes my mouth, your taste, your smell, a rancidity oh so known to me.

I should have believed such prose travelers spoke to me. Your story so disclosed to me. Is such prophecy not the fallacy I once believed it to be?

Back in this irreparable reality, I operate clandestinely — unseen, unused by you. For our fire was a flicker — a blaze in the dark — No more! I already droned on enough before. For you were just a lure, angler OR troller in flooded waters — you set the scene, I played the role written for me. It is you who fed this inequality.

As I waited for the change, I thought I would receive when we became. From source to creation to exposition.

Nothing.

“Apart, intrinsic, stand” an inbred cacophony,

Stop, drop, roll. I thought you prophecy.

Is one as simple as you never to voice your desire for me?

To finally speak these words is quite

unfathomable,

but I must expose the

unimaginable,

for I cannot stay in this

examinable

“sordid excellence” comparable

deceited state of censored comments and redacted fate, a twisted tale of lies catalysed by the Us that we are, the Us that passes by, the Us that never was and never will be.

“Our Life –” you and me “His Porcelain –” well if you were a he

“Like a Cup –” means nothing to me.

for we are -

Nothing, you see?

Had I never seen or known OR forced OR threw OR thrust you to a lifeless plummet, an early grave upon concrete floor. I ripped the pretty clothes I once laid upon you, a gift of sorts to separate you from the rest. A shift I feel, for as you lay bare OR limp OR dead — I can't help but see your true stature, no monarch lies at one's feet. Your throne OR wall bare. Shall I rule?

“Bloodless monster!”

I ask, don't be offended, “it all happened so fast”, no alternative to this of course — for like those before, you are an object of my desire, nothing more.

I pull you apart, tear you limb from limb, put you in with the rest - beneath my desk.

How must I go so long with you and you alone. Oh, for wandering eyes of mine, protrude me (now). I never feel, only see. New opportunity renewal, of what has been. So plead for new or old even — for you aren’t mine anymore and yet you belong to me.

So now, I sit “in the space between” I see what has been, from perspectives unseen. For “when that which is and that which was”, sunk in, truly, all I OR even she knew is that s”he must not go back in/(for)Desire is no light thing”. Yet desire is all she thinks, desire is all she feels, for she is what she lacks, and yet what she lacks is nothing. For nothing is something and yet nothing at all, and nothing is all she knows, and nothing is so small.

I stare at your dismembered beauty, now a ball, of sorts beneath me. I recall, for with each touch we grew, we made something of ourselves, (I) used.to at least feel connection (maybe i still do?) from physical cadence, I yearned for it. Now I beg for you to leave, your “dangerous cloud” still looming over me, I feel

its breath on the back of my neck —

the cloud draws near to me,

and with such cloud comes such futile winds, I spoke of previously - rejoin me, I beg of thee -

For we were on fire,

Under me the floor was on fire —

Each damning sore was on fire.

“The world was on fire”

My world is fire.

Truth —

nowhere to be seen.

For truth was never we, you see, FUCK I think I left the door ajar.

The fire spreads to me —