The Strangeness of Absence

It isn't that I refuse to feel. It's not that. I don't resist it. I believe I am ready to welcome it, wholeheartedly, like rain after summer. I am ready to welcome it gladly. Every day I wake up and rush to the front door wishing that it would dust its feet on the mat outside and knock, finally, after so long. I want to. I long to. I am mad for it. I am mad like the torrential fire that ravages the forest.

Or so I'd like to think. Maybe I'm not as mad as I think I am. Maybe I am only as mad as the soft dying glow of the spent bonfire. The heart, perhaps, burns only like solid ice. A chunk of cold ice---only frostbite, mistaken for flame. Perhaps, perhaps. I've forgotten already.

This is youth. I see it gallop like a wild horse, away. The rushing river has reached the lake. On the horizon I see the sun as it bids goodbye, leaving this sky for another's. There was something lost; but it came too quietly, this passing. I hardly even noticed it leave. Had everything come abruptly the pain perhaps would've been too unbearable, but the feeling wanes like the aftermath of a storm in the last few hours of its life. I only remember, and what I remember I pine for, but perhaps it's too late. 

Luminous

"I would like to sleep

with you, to enter

your sleep as its smooth dark wave

slides over my head."

- "Variations of the Word Sleep", by Margaret Atwood

I want to touch you in your hidden places. When you are sleeping, I will secretly crawl in your dream and whisper behind you. I want to walk my fingers on your skin and feel the landscapes of your iridescent body, to feel your legs and hands entwined with mine in this lazy Sunday morning. 


I want to wake up everyday and see you looking at me that way you look at me when you think I'm not looking, and then I'll stare at you, and you'll ask, "What?" and I'll say, "nothing" and then smile, the hours melting into fluid desire that fills the vessels of our souls to the brim. We are overflowing. Today is illuminated with everything that is plenty.

The Things I Notice During Workdays

There's a container van down our building that plays this kind of music during the afternoon. LOL.

Sturm und Drang

Do not – I repeat, do not – tell me that it is my fault. There’s a speck of dust in my eye, I’m not crying – it’s just a speck of dust – this speck of dust called history, called memories you blew my way, I can’t seem to wipe it, I’m trying, it’s stuck, I don’t want to let go. I am ancient like that, a living fossil, stubborn and unmoving, time is the tide that washes me away fragment by fragment, soul and body, defeated but proud but defeated still, clinging to the fabric slowly unweaving, all that was is gone, and you go and I stay and I say goodbye standing atop a hill waving for you to come back but you disappear like a thread in the eye of a needle, you’ve moved on, they’ve moved on, everyone has moved on. The wind has blown, the ship has set, the ocean becomes blue beyond the curve of the horizon where a sunset turns the world aflame. The earth turns. The universe expands, and stretches into the nether-regions but I am here at the middle waiting for everything to collapse and come rushing back to where it once were, in my arms where we will all find the calm after this storm.