I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,
or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.
I love you as the plant that never blooms
but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;
thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,
risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.
I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.
I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;
so I love you because I know no other way
than this: where I does not exist, nor you,
so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,
so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.
Eyes open, the moment of realization. Like a drop of dye in a puddle: first small, condensed, twisting within itself, and then suddenly dispersed, known everywhere. Soon the pool will bear a shade of the drop, so faint that a passerby would walk by without a pause. The drop, the open eyes: once small, now faint, ever unnoticeable, always watching.
You may tire of me as our December sun is setting
because I’m not who I used to be.
No longer easy on the eyes,
these wrinkles masterfully disguise
the youthful boy below who turned your way and saw
something he was not looking for: both a beginning and an end.
But now he lives inside someone he does not recognize
when he catches his reflection on accident.
On the back of a motor bike
with your arms outstretched trying to take flight,
leaving everything behind.
But even at our swiftest speed we couldn’t break from the concrete
in the city where we still reside.
And I have learned that even landlocked lovers yearn for the sea like navy men.
Now we say goodnight from our own separate sides
like brothers on a hotel bed.
[Flash 9 is required to listen to audio.]
iron & wine - boy with a coin
Loneliness as a situation can be corrected, but as a state of mind it is an incurable illness.
— Vladimir Nabokov
I do not like the idea of happiness, it is too momentary. I would say that I was always busy and interested in something. Interest has more meaning to me than the idea of happiness.
— Georgia O’Keeffe
“Make your body new for me, miss magdalene!”
“but sir, I’m afraid you don’t understand, I cannot.”
