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Jordon Leigh

As I sit quietly in the dark, opaque corner of the room, wispy fingers of smoke exfoliating from between my lips, I watch your body as it moves from one point of space to the next; transmogrifying it's form and substance from the subliminal to the infinite. There is little light here in the room, save that of the reflected amber luminescence straining from the alleyway window. In this lack of light, your body seems to shift and resubstantiate with your every move, and with enough imagination it's not difficult to mold your image into anything I see fit. The air; anticipating your arrival; contracts then radiates away from the space into which you step. Where you stand, no breath is made. Where you step, a flower dies. Every footfall that is made ripples outward in a butterfly effect, chemically reacting to a multitude of lifelines, histories, and possibilities. Your body, in and of itself, is a force of nature; a cosmic mote that stops everything within it's reach, like a black hole. In the perimeters of where you exist light is suffocated, oxygen is repulsed, time and motion are eliminated. Because of this, I am drawn to you, like some straying comet without an orbit, sucked in and nullified.


When I am with you; whether caressing your velveteen cheek or kissing your ruby lips; my memories evaporate into aether and fluid time becomes dissolute, unreal. All concepts of the past and future are unraveled, impacted into nothing but the present moment. Gravity holds no bearing there either, save for that of my body pressed to yours. Together in this place we are interwoven, like some deranged Moebius strip, a symbol of the infinite. Blacker than dark matter and heavier than the sun.


This then, is my bliss. And this too, is my damnation.


As the days click by outside the exterior of this sphere of influence, I succumb to a need for air, and with it, a desire to sever the tethers which bind me like an unseen umbilicus. Yet, despite my own drive of volition and motives for self-preservation, I cannot erase the pangs of connection that bubble in my blood. They expand more and more with each passing hour, not unlike the rising deep sea diver possessed by the bends. And thus, the effects become all encompassing and absolute, laying waste to all other physical desires or needs. The earth and it's accompanying sights, sounds, flavours and smells can be deemed nothing short of insignificant, paling in comparison to the sensation, as if a junkie in thrall for methadone.


And so it continued as such. I reach for you, I find and touch you. Time stands still and the air becomes stagnant. In this condition, a perpetual state of abyss.


I am here now, in this darkened corner of the room, eyes upon you. The afterglow from the alley is a reflection from the streetlamp shining against the burnt colour of brick. An endless muffled churning groans someplace deep and unreachable; the engine of the city; providing a soundtrack to your subconscious dance of motion. While watching you, absorbing the delicate curves and nuances which comprise your form, I begin to contemplate my theories upon it; searching for answers to best describe this critical mass that is your body.


What I conclude then, is that what you are made of is all but the most fragile and precise confluence of heaven and hell; strategically interconnected points crossing over one another, leaking from both divine planes. At each coordinate that these two planes collide, they form a single, solitary molecule of your being. To gain access to you is to be handed the keys to the gates of both dimensions, if only for a glimpse. Because you exist in a corporeal world, neither realm can be entered through you directly, merely through sensation. The longer I am with you, the deeper I am consumed; melting into the constant signals from both planes until ultimately, irrevocably, I am no more aware of the place from which I came.




The End.





Jordon Leigh is 30 years old and a writer residing (at present) in the midwest of the United States. He has been working on numerous pieces of short fiction for the better part of 7 years, although some of that time has been broken up by working with music and other creative endeavors. The past year he has spent his time focusing on putting together a collection of his short prose, under the working title of "Personal Effects". Any questions, comments or contact with me can be made at

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