don_delillo – blackandwhiteandcolours

I look and listen. I try.

That’s my language.

I’m telling you because I trust you.

He was whispering for some reason.

This is not just a detail.

I don’t really know you.

What are you saying?

Look at where we are.

Words that have shapes and sounds.

She said that her mother’s name was Florence.

He did not try to imagine the lives inside.

There where times when he could not stop looking.

And it was probably normal.

It happened intermittently.

He didn’t know how to explain this.

It was one of the Saturdays that feel like Sundays.

It was clear to me that there was no romance between them.

These occasions stick and hold.

I tried to think about this.

I had to stop before it killed me.

There was something satisfying and hard-won about this.

I sat and thought, forgot to keep thinking, then started over.

It made me want to go home and stay there.

Who were these people, minute to minute and year after year?

All I felt was a shattered space.

I wanted the stain to last for days and weeks.

Was it some freakified gesture of reverence?

I didn’t know what this was.

I stood in front of store windows studying my reflection.

I walked the streets looking for people who might look at me.

We went for walks together.

I was myself here, able to see things singly and plainly