Read Online Listening to Dust by Brandon Shire - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Brandon Shire
Ads: Link
“Smart folks,” he said and went back to his omelet.
Chapter 11
Dustin,
I dreamt of you again last night; dreamt of your lean, hard body pressed against me in bed; dreamt about how you woke me Christmas morning by nuzzling on the back of my neck; how you murmured to me, telling me how much you loved me without actually saying those words.
I thought I was still dreaming while you were talking to me. I thought all the things you said without saying was just my own longing; my own hunger hammering at my subconscious, pulling me back into the barbarity of the real world. But once I heard your voice, once I listened to the whisper of the thoughts you held so close, I knew I was awake and I just laid there so that I could consider what you would not say plainly or in waking hours.
Your words filled my sleep and pulled me from it, Dustin. I felt them reach in and touch that space that had ached in my chest for so long. And yet, as I awoke that morning I so clearly recalled the conversation we had about how you thought all words were just fiction, and how action was the only true reality. But isn’t putting voice to words an action in itself? Isn’t speaking the most treasured parts of your heart aloud the industry of movement; of change and courage; of engagement, and ultimately, the industry of victory?
Looking back I consider that you may have been right about words and action, but only in part. And I say in part because I still know your caress on my skin. I can still feel your stubble on the back of my neck. I can still taste the salt of your body. Those are your actions that spoke to me, Dustin.
But you are also wrong because it is your words that cling to me most. It is your words that hold my heart in place; that keep my hope fresh; that last and gather together when silence threatens to plunge me back into the black misery I knew when you left.
I realize that it is quite likely that you assume that it’s just because I’m a writer and a romantic at heart that my thinking runs along these lines. And that may be so. But I sense that it’s so much more than that.
And maybe I hold onto this because I know how familiar you are with that feeling too; that vacant ache of deep loneliness; that throbbing in our chest that we think no one knows but us.
I never told you this, Dustin, but that morning was the first time, the very first time since my parents died, that any words filled the vacant space that was inside of me. Of all the vast numbers of words that I have put on paper, or the vaster number that I have consumed in my existence, none has ever touched that spot as your words did that morning. None.
I don’t know where that vacancy came from. Maybe it came from the fact that I was so young when my parents died that I just held anger in my heart and let it burn a hole there. I know I hated Colette, hated that they sent me to live with her, hated France, the terrorists who took their lives; and I hated the all the rest of world because it was so unfair. And even though Colette helped me outgrow that childish rage, she could never quite fill the space that was left behind.
As I consider all this I wonder if I also feigned sleep that morning because I was so afraid that you were still angry about the comment I made about that boy at the chippy. Do you remember him? I said he was cute and asked your opinion. Do you remember?
I really thought I lost you then, Dustin. When I turned around and saw your face I thought I had pushed you away. It made me realize how much I had hurt you with what I thought was an innocent comment.
You got so quiet, so distant. I honestly didn’t believe that you would come with me to the arts quarter, and it was the only place that I could think of at that moment to show you that I meant no harm.
I was so desperate that I was on the verge of suggesting we run off to Paris for the weekend, even though I knew you had just come back from your
Chapter 11
Dustin,
I dreamt of you again last night; dreamt of your lean, hard body pressed against me in bed; dreamt about how you woke me Christmas morning by nuzzling on the back of my neck; how you murmured to me, telling me how much you loved me without actually saying those words.
I thought I was still dreaming while you were talking to me. I thought all the things you said without saying was just my own longing; my own hunger hammering at my subconscious, pulling me back into the barbarity of the real world. But once I heard your voice, once I listened to the whisper of the thoughts you held so close, I knew I was awake and I just laid there so that I could consider what you would not say plainly or in waking hours.
Your words filled my sleep and pulled me from it, Dustin. I felt them reach in and touch that space that had ached in my chest for so long. And yet, as I awoke that morning I so clearly recalled the conversation we had about how you thought all words were just fiction, and how action was the only true reality. But isn’t putting voice to words an action in itself? Isn’t speaking the most treasured parts of your heart aloud the industry of movement; of change and courage; of engagement, and ultimately, the industry of victory?
Looking back I consider that you may have been right about words and action, but only in part. And I say in part because I still know your caress on my skin. I can still feel your stubble on the back of my neck. I can still taste the salt of your body. Those are your actions that spoke to me, Dustin.
But you are also wrong because it is your words that cling to me most. It is your words that hold my heart in place; that keep my hope fresh; that last and gather together when silence threatens to plunge me back into the black misery I knew when you left.
I realize that it is quite likely that you assume that it’s just because I’m a writer and a romantic at heart that my thinking runs along these lines. And that may be so. But I sense that it’s so much more than that.
And maybe I hold onto this because I know how familiar you are with that feeling too; that vacant ache of deep loneliness; that throbbing in our chest that we think no one knows but us.
I never told you this, Dustin, but that morning was the first time, the very first time since my parents died, that any words filled the vacant space that was inside of me. Of all the vast numbers of words that I have put on paper, or the vaster number that I have consumed in my existence, none has ever touched that spot as your words did that morning. None.
I don’t know where that vacancy came from. Maybe it came from the fact that I was so young when my parents died that I just held anger in my heart and let it burn a hole there. I know I hated Colette, hated that they sent me to live with her, hated France, the terrorists who took their lives; and I hated the all the rest of world because it was so unfair. And even though Colette helped me outgrow that childish rage, she could never quite fill the space that was left behind.
As I consider all this I wonder if I also feigned sleep that morning because I was so afraid that you were still angry about the comment I made about that boy at the chippy. Do you remember him? I said he was cute and asked your opinion. Do you remember?
I really thought I lost you then, Dustin. When I turned around and saw your face I thought I had pushed you away. It made me realize how much I had hurt you with what I thought was an innocent comment.
You got so quiet, so distant. I honestly didn’t believe that you would come with me to the arts quarter, and it was the only place that I could think of at that moment to show you that I meant no harm.
I was so desperate that I was on the verge of suggesting we run off to Paris for the weekend, even though I knew you had just come back from your
Similar Books
