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Congealed Solitude in Blue Landscapes come in many forms. Mine was the glacial terrain of distance. Each letter I received from you, sometimes three in a day, was a despondent testimony of a devotion that required horizons that never converged. It was subterranean and unfathomable, but each cherished letter bore the fervor of requited love that treasured a pen. Each piece of paper was capable of offhand vagrant sentences that made me read them over and over to uncover something that might foretell the end. I just received another letter. I read it through many times and then put it in the trunk with the others. There was no staring at walls when alone with your words. Combustion begged for turbine. It was 50 below wind chill, so I piled on whatever clothes I could and blasted outside. A cast of raised fences of snow, blued from the banks of twilight, shadowed either side of the frozen path that cracked up beneath me. Faces blurred into their woolen bondage spared me the weariness of the man swarm, and I was as well hidden. A mutual alleviation of gloom on either side cloaked this tundric underworld. We wrapped ourselves in its congealed solitude. I walked for miles lost in this layered landscape of a spectacular muted empyrean of endless ice. The edges of gray were withered away by the haunting blues of these frozen reflections that spilled out everywhere in massive tidal waves. Maybe they were of the sky. Cloud upon cloud of rolling mounds filled in beneath me like a child’s visionary heaven molded in tumbling oceans of blue. It was a blue as somber as the day I left you–miles of it. An expanse crusted and weathered into raging months of barometric highs and lows that spired it into its raw architecture, sculpted in crudely multi-leveled vistas like the slow, tiered leakage of exiled sand from out of a million closed fists. A blue diffusion of rising mounts and falling cavities went on forever and spread over this whispering globe. The audible stupor of the wind held itself back, swelled with inflated restraint, and then hurled out from place to place in small, inflamed pools blasting over the snow in random howling drifts, echoing tremors that could never be located. Cars, buses and pedestrians continued forward through this remote landscape that somehow altered them as they now moved through this dense frame of ice in a dual world that recorded itself as a city, and yet, I remained remarkably alone, somewhere inside this blue nowhere, wishing only that you or the ghost of your words were added to this vaporous landscape, walking and talking with me, anywhere.

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BWOWP_WHITE01  

Black Words On White Paper is a unique literary journal, publishing poems and flash fiction that fit onto a single page. This is the premier...

BWOWP_WHITE01  

Black Words On White Paper is a unique literary journal, publishing poems and flash fiction that fit onto a single page. This is the premier...

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