Ever-evasive memoirs

IV In this space so liberally referred to as life I learn to feel and fuse the frivolous and substantive; immerse myself (in all my juxtaposed being, in abstractions born from this) in my seeking for a perfect memoir: I did not recognise you but now, in the absence of the nights that unveiled the planes your body (which, frankly, I crave for), I feel your name against the palate of my mouth - expanding into the void, collapsing back up, and meeting the second and decisively last syllable. Yet there’s no comfort in mimicking the movement and grace so finely articulated by our molten souls (traversing a vastness, tripping through an intoxicating space - but also constantly, intensely, (sometimes) fiercely feeling); There’s no comfort in seeing your eyes in someone else’s, or your mouth, or hair or hands, clothesoranyotherpart ofyou...thelanguageofyourtongue; your smell I always search for, but just can’t seem to recollect; the voice of a stranger, even remotely suggesting that this is, (how bliss my dream!) a distorted real, and I don’t recognise you; I'm searching for that thirteenth smell, throned upon the chord of twelve, to form the perfect jewel, which will, to the one who bears, proclaim: "this one is rare: this one is true."