Saturday, January 3, 2015

In December


The buoy isn’t the question – it’s an entire fucking language. And the salt in the water doesn’t do much for thirst or for hunger. It is simply a sensory experience.

Whatever fence it is, may I never be a story you tell.

Beware of hungry love. Beware of easy confessions.

It’s not my heart, is it? It’s my bowels. And eventually I’ll empty. Time will empty all open wounds. I’ll bleed out and somehow fill it back up.

Because I was wrong, you know how to reach me. I’ve left all of my emergency contacts at home, in the bin.

From W.H. Auden’s The More Loving One:
Were all stars to disappear or die,
I should learn to look at an empty sky

W.B. Yeats: Never give all the heart
“Never give all the heart, for love
Will hardly seem worth thinking of
To passionate women if it seem
Certain, and they never dream
That it fades out from kiss to kiss;
For everything that’s lovely is
But a brief, dreamy, kind delight.
O never give the heart outright,
For they, for all smooth lips can say,
Have given their hearts up to the play.
And who could play it well enough
If deaf and dumb and blind with love?
He that made this knows all the cost,
For he gave all his heart and lost.

A.E. Housman:
“He would not stay for me, and who can wonder?
He would not stay for me to stand and gaze.
I shook his hand, and tore my heart in sunder,
And went with half my life about my ways.”

Oh have you lost and the losing is convulsive and violent and unrelenting and turbulent. The waves are sudden, nauseating, hateful.

“Anything I do in my life I can do because you love me.”

I fell in love with you today. As if sentence fragments were enough. And tomorrow, what is gone is also gone.

“We could live in Hell together…”

“Send him to me again.”



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