a thought

my morning thought, however fleeting, brought back a co-incidence, ella, about our sinister brooding. about the philosophy of tickle. the idea of tickling someone to death. you tried that, you said, to your grandmother in Valhalla, when you were twelve years and two months. spiteful, hustled, a Belgrade resident, and in your outer conscience, a well-meaning serendipity. you pinched my inner soul, allegorically, with asymmetry. and massaged my nose. a piece of fuchsia silk, glistening with mildew. dampened with rust, iron coins, crunching and caressing the latency of your marriage. you never cheated. you defied the clause of your oaths. one by one, in the search of fulfillment, complementary to suppression of your mother's religion. i egged you on, to find yourself. to love your flesh. to explore and promulgate a coy clitoris. to sanctify the literacy of your wet vagina. to squeal in pleasure from defiance. an anti-traditionalist, an iconoclast. to define the meaning of your sexual tenderness. i turned you against the hetero-phile; crowning in structure, demanding from you a unitary committee. but i asked you to flee, to dissolve the opacity of your surrounding cage. to be the anarchist. to be the self-exploratory, admonishing critic of everyday bricks, of religion, sex, and structure. you won yourself, you outlived your culture. you cultist pearl, XX cessation-ist, sensationalist of a queer sartorial. my morning thought, however fleeting, brought back a co-incidence, ella. my life is a mystery. even to myself.