“You mean you don’t keep composing letters to her in your head? You don’t keep wanting to tell her how wretched you are, but then you don’t send them, because what if she took you back because you were wretched? How terrible that would be, you tell yourself. When something happens—something funny, or interesting, or sad—you look around to tell her about it, then you remember. And you want to tell her that is going on, but you don’t, because you don’t want to add to her burdens, only you do want to add to her burdens, and you hate that you want to add to her burdens. You wonder if she’s seeing someone else, and you hope she is, and you hope she isn’t, and you hate that it matters so much. And maybe you’ve found someone else yourself, but you worry that it isn’t fair to her, and then you worry that you shouldn’t worry about that, and then it infuriates you that you’re spending so much time thinking about it, and so it turns into aimless grief.”
I accidentally posted Split Sky 15.1 eight hours early. Sorry for any confusion.
I’ve been saving my poetry for poetry month. I feel like a hoarder. Or Gollum.
I had a premonition. I’ll try to follow it.
My response:Scars are the physical manifestation of a life lived on the edge or in the darkness. My two great loves were people who comprised both of these. Their scars were mental and physical and I loved them more than I can adequately express in a lifetime. So of course, the answer must always be yes.
I was listening to A Love Supreme, part IV Psalm by John Coltrane when I left work tonight. Walking through the empty halls, seeing the lights from the cars and my city. Listening to the melancholy, the denouement, the end of this brilliant piece of music.
I see the pairing of this energetic Jazz and the city as character. Made much more evident as I emerged into the night. On the roof of the parking garage, the panoply of lights and the city stretched out like, the Jazz bounding in my ears and heart. I feel a connection to the people of my city. I realize that I love them.
I don’t like most of them, I don’t know them. But at this moment, I am connected to them all, I feel boundless love for them. And as the last strains play, I want for only two things. One more play through of this sweeping music and you.
Whoever and wherever you are. I hope this finds its way to you.
Not sure if anyone likes these playlists but here’s another one
If anyone ever wants to email me, they can reach me at email@example.com.
I’m tired of this pointless rut carried out in words. This diversion, this flirtation leading to nothing but inflamed thoughts. I’ve spent years in service to the pleasures of the flesh. Easy now to recount, to regale, but without you near what purpose? I’m right back to that jaded point where I am weary of the pleasure centered on cock and cunt. Explore with me the sensation of touch but leave off those. Too easy, too simple. Explore pain and music, sound and sensation. Taste, pressure. Speak of art and philosophy. Weave with me a story. Ascend past the barrier of flesh into resonant wavelengths. Dance and sing, give voice to the internal monologue, let me hear your every thought as you think it. I want more than the pleasure of simple desire. Give me complexity, conundrum and puzzle.