Adoramus (In Edit)

Mar. 27th, 2008 at 3:21 AM


"No baby you can't see inside. No, baby, no you can't see my soul!" I sang along to the words of Rufus Wainwright's crooning. "Is that a dare?" she asked, the wickedness of her grin belying the tenderness she tried to hide in the hazels of her eyes. My face broke out into a sprawling smile, she excited my soul. "It's a challenge," I laughed back. "Well, I'm always up for one of those," she said indignantly as I rounded a wide left and pulled in the gas station. She was beautiful, but in a way only I could see. She was so many things at once, a cacophony of noise in a soundless vacuum. A nurturer without the pretense of the needy affection I craved. Violins, horns, piano, strange hectic drum beats and whiny angry voices; Twisted words and sarcastic double meanings. These are the things I gave her tonight on our three hour car ride. The thought had occurred to me, to keep driving, to take her away from here. But to steal off with her in the night would be delivering the challenge squarely at her feet, a total surrender. No, that could wait. I wasn't done putting up a fight yet. Her silence irritated me. I wanted to know everything. She was keeping her thoughts to herself, like secrets, and I longed to learn each one. Spare me some tenderness my Russian Tsarina, have you no mercy for this abused soul? She is as hot as the fire that has burned my skin so many times, and as frigid as the ice around my heart. She is forever confronting the skeletons in my closet, my every weakness, my difficult past, a labor of love. Yet she remains distant, aloof, and removed while still offering me the kind of support that turns clingy children into self-respecting, independent adults. Beneath the glaring exterior of Hole, Tool, and Alice in Chains, there is the tender music of mournful silver flutes hiding in the dark points of her eyes. Those same eyes that track, observe, and notice virtually everything too painfully. Her vision is more effected than others. Born with the veil lifted, I am longing to teach her to see. She brings out the Leo in me, allowing me lengthy moments of unabashed self confidence, a stark contrast to my usual cloak of self-defecation. I despise her for giving me the thing I crave most from her: silent adoration. She comes to worship as the truly pious do: quietly, inwardly. Casting nothing through her serious exterior save her belief, her faith, unwavering. Why? I suppose it is the same reason followers only mimic priests words; standing when told, singing only when structured opportunities reveal themselves. She is the Latin I used to sing as a young wisp of a girl in Catholic choir. Their meaning, painfully dutiful, breaking the hearts of only those who know their true meaning through the cold pronunciation of their tongue. She is ethereal to me, as garish as the sound of organ pipes vaulting through the ceilings of empty cathedrals, gently rattling stained glass visages set in lead. And this lonely priest is drowning out the sounds of the choir with a strained and strangled voice. She gives me the strength to preach, long winded in my sermons. But she gives me the sweet solace of solitude to write my homilies. Still in Progress...

Music:I am the Day - Libera