Eros

On his fingertips he can feel the breeze. On his arms, in his hair, he can feel the warm breeze that brings flowers into this place, this dark place. They are far away. He cannot reach far enough from here to find the walls. He has stepped out into the center. He has taken the leap, he has walked away from boundary, and only to feel, smell, this rose effused air. He is open, and with his arms outspread he cannot remember from which direction he came and his heart is beating in his chest a frenetic code and his breath whistles out of his mouth agape with sudden fear because his boundary is gone. His arms and legs are buzzing with adrenaline; he must fly. He is still a moment longer, trying to find again that place in him that felt the breeze, the place inside that opened briefly, fluttered like wings, yawned and filled itself with the feeling of the scented air, the memory of the exhilaration of feeling nothing but flowers. He finds it; he holds it; he flies. He runs knowing that he will hit a wall, knowing that this expanse does not last forever, and there is grotesque comfort in that certainty, a certainty never present when he can feel the air. He runs with feet that slap the ground, the metal ground, each plane held together by bolts that rip into his exposed skin when the two find each other. The echo runs ahead of him and hits the wall a moment before he does, but he does not bounce back, he is glued, he is spread against the wall, his cheek against the cool metal, his heavy breath condensing on its surface, his palms flat and trembling. The wall is all that he can feel, smell, all that there is. His knees are buckling, his body is sliding down, his cheek is creating friction against the wall, the scars on his cheek creating friction, the scars that furrow deep into his skin, from both cheeks to both eyelids, over both eyebrows and into his forehead, and crossed the other way; two x's over two empty eye sockets, in the puckered lines of scars. His upper body is coming away from the wall, is doubling over his folded knees; his trembling hands are rising to trace the lines again, his hands that he will never see; love will always be blind.