On crepuscular beings

A beer and a cigarette. A windy, cool August evening. A rare find. A garden whose leaves have been slowly shedding all summer. Leaves and flowers float on the surface; a pool whose water may now be too chilly to swim in. A small net lying on its side. The moon is half full, half empty, and half lit. The stars that surround it timid, not half as close to be bright enough. They all belong to this universe it seems, otherwise they would have shone differently. 

I’ve seen the ones whose existence isn’t familiar. I’ve touched them. They should have felt alien; all they did was make me wonder why I hadn’t found them sooner. I’ve been looking for them all my life; their effulgence warmed my soul to melting point and opened up my eyes. Their voluptuousness animated my limbs and cut the strings that had been moving them around senselessly.

Both sun and moon rise and set, but they…purl; they navigate my consciousness the way a wild boar sniffs around for truffles. I am deep underground, waiting in the dark to be discovered, savored, looked at: black on the outside, filled with dirt, white and velvety on the inside. I smell of earth, I taste of smoke, I am hard to find and can’t be seen. 

Nature conquers light and its lack thereof. Some species choose the dark; they are born there, breathe through the earth’s pores…in and out, in and out. They sense what transpires above. They feel the vibrations: footsteps, heartbeats, orgasms. I like to surface every now and then, to be consumed; I like to linger on the tongues of those who labored to see beyond my charcoal exterior. Those who looked at it and salivated at the thought. Those who know that taste far outweighs sight. Those who came to me with their eyes closed and their arms outstretched.  

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