oh!
it is the full moon. perhaps that is why.
i am so wrackled with desperate curiosity. there is no way for me to know anything about it anymore. all i can know is what i end up dreaming, what i end up misremembering, the way five months six years ago eight thousand miles apart somehow made an image of a love so robust it could trouble me now. euch. i just don't know. i love someone who isn't real anymore. with a heart that's had the color drained from it, that i'm scrapping feeling back into from the mess, not quite knowing if i've found the proper fragments or if it's all lint and old paperclips and mismatched socks i'm forcing in there instead.
it's hard to really let it all go. the ghosts of years and all the many shelters that housed us.
it is hard to think that this is what remains for me of love. the even rows. the order. the prematurely subdued passion. the comfort and the sustenance.
i remember feeling needed. i don't think i misremember.
it isn't him; it is this feeling that i want again. the urgency. that nowness. cheeks flushed with need for the words that i'll say. for me. for something indefinable.
each time i used to cry when we were fighting he would get hard in spite of himself and start laughing at the paradox. our ardor would end the argument and we'd go on.
i want a mess again. it doesn't need to be vast. but certain parts must fit poorly and have no explanation. raggedness will be desirable. whole sections can be invisible and have no one who'll claim credit for their content. some of it can be fully covered in soot or dust. especially good would be the places where colors bleed together and run outside the lines or off the pages. or across the room to you.
listening to: the last days - gavin bryars / balanescu quartet