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Colossus Winter

Shannon tells me she thinks it is the ghosts of them that trail my mind, turning over stones to unveil the squirming doubts and insecurities beneath. She's right. My mind is a coin caught in a carnival collector's bowl, circling the sides in a circadian spiral that never seems to cease.

I miss the colossus. I miss lying in the coolness of his shadow and the roughness of his skin. I want to lay like a beautiful, precious seashell in the palm of his overgrown hand and be held, remembered if possible. But despite his immense size, I am never able to see him clearly. Maybe because of his immense size.

A transparent film binds my mind. I see images of possibilities but there are wrinkles in every scene and sometimes, where a face or hand might be, there is instead a flesh-coloured blur, plastic and immaterial.

I feel through this film: misty love and a kind of liquid pain that collects with the condensation of hopes and doubts against the coolness of plastic-wrapped reality.

I want to have a heart cushioned in shrink-wrap and styrofoam. Non-microwaveable, of course. Where the countours of the ripe, uncooked flesh can be traced as it presses against the plastic. Where the delicate veins can pause their pulsing, removed from my thirsty body.

Acknowledgements: Photo by [Evren Aydin](Photo by EVREN AYDIN on Unsplash) on Unsplash.