Tuesday, 17 August 2010

• Currently Sing the Sorrow By A.F.I. Miseria Cantare (The Beginning) see related

  ~~~Miseria Cantare~~~

  Her voice is the sweetest sound I've ever heard. Sunday mornings, instead of going to church, I stand outside the bathroom door with my ear pressed against the wood and listen to her sing. She doesn't know about this ritual, if she did she'd stop singing on Sunday mornings, and then no one would ever hear her beautiful voice. She sounds like a a chorus of wind chimes on a chilly October evening, tinkling together like the sound champagne glasses make when toasted together. Sunday morning sex in the shower is out of the question, I'd rather listen to her sing. Sometimes she sings at night when she thinks I'm buried under unconsciousness, when we're both lying next to each other she fits her body against mine and whispers lullabies into my ear. Her breath tickles my ear, a chorus of notes climbing into my brain where they'll latch onto my brain stem and sing me through the endless nights when she's not there.

  When it rains she likes to stand in the window, watching the world cry for her. She screams with the thunder as it rattles the glass in the window pane, thinking it drowns the sorrow, but I can hear her screaming from down the hall. Lying alone in bed on those nights I listen to her scream her heart out; she screams until it literally emerges from between her lips and plops upon the floor with a sticky, wet thud. She picks it up, cradling it inside her arms like a child, and whispers the same lullabies to her heart that she whispers to me when she thinks I'm asleep. It's those nights I feel the most alone even though I know she's only down the hall. I can't bridge the distance between us, though, she's too far away from me in the storm, so far I can't see her through the sheets of rain pounding on the roof like a steel drum. Her sorrow sings through the claps of thunder and the streaks of lightening that peal through the sky like insane laughter until it reaches me lying alone in bed, wishing my voice could convey the hole in my heart that her absence drills through me like a bullet. On those nights I close my eyes tight and listen to Misery sing her songs of sorrow, weeping silent tears like rain that streaks down the window, leaving trails she follows with her fingers into infinite.

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