The Stomach

May 29th, 2011

I could offer him my tongue – for example, i could twist it to make him laugh. Perhaps i could even mutter some words he’d understand.
Or my hand. We could wrestle them, the left one, yes, the left one, so i wouldn’t lose so easily, just in case he’d still have some kicking habits in him.
I could share my recipe for mushroom soup, in case she hates meat. Then a pillow, so she wouldn’t complain when sleeping on the floor. And some sounds to comfort her loneliness, even if she’d tremble in the face of it – at least she wouldn’t be alone.
I could possibly offer him my kidney, but i doubt it is of much use these days. Maybe a hair. Yes, a hair would be nice – the smell of burning hair to skew the evening or the night. In the morning i’d prepare him some tea, but not the best one i have – i don’t think he’d appreciate the good one enough. I must be carefull and count, afterall, he is a foreigner.
Some paint, tobacco, some piano keys, D-flat would be nice, i think. A figure of a dog, an old plate, all those things i found as a foreigner, long time ago – we could share our strangeness, even if the books say it’s unshareable.
Forgetting, yes, some forgetting in between the stouts. And if she’d insist, i could smile some. Very little. If she wouldn’t notice, well, then that’s it – nothing else i have and i’m not even half-sure i can give her nothing.
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