I adore you.
I have to start with that common, misused, adorned phrase for sometimes, the most obvious facts bear repeating. Against the falseness, they barrel through. Against the swell of disappointments, they ground. Against me, I hope there is you, adored and yourself.
I mean all of it. All of you. You are thick with that heavy emotion, that sweeping swell that is there decaying under the surface, but not said. In it there are so many things I cannot understand. How deep is your hurt. Who has let you down again and again. What do you need or want or wish for.
In the short while, though, I have tried to peak at the blips of your sadness with lightness you give: the sunrise without the sleepy yawn, the unending spring that saw us untiring in each other’s arms. I have come to know you. You say you have not known me in the same time. This, I think, is the same, unremitting pain that makes you stay unsaying, silent. You believe that people will leave you. That you yourself have left you.
Again in this quiet abandon, I repeat I adore you. I adore that loss. I adore that unknowing. I adore that you are perhaps wrong. I adore that you may be completely right about yourself. I adore that you think I am disappearing. I adore saying I am here I am here I am here for you.
I may not be enough. I may not have the right words. But what I do have is the possibility of saying something new, rekindling the overworked, wet phrases that have been swallowed whole by others. Such as saying I adore you.
Once more, this repetition is vital: it is how we come to know something. In school, we comprehend the body in its mouthless continuity. In each other, we may lose it all the same.
This is equal possibility is important for here, I offer that recycling: a small body that has been, that has seen, that as flown and watched and already experienced. A trip to New York.
You have already seen what there is too be seen there. You have left that place. But have I seen you there? Have you seen I? Have we, together, been seen as adored?
In coming back to the city, what I hope is that you realize that you are all you need to be, which is all you aren’t yet. It means leaving. It means loss. And in this seizing, slippery disappearing, it means finding out that you are radiantly adored. Despite the shedding. Because of it.
Happy anniversary, dear
I’m going to be honest: I like your writing, but I can’t make heads or tails of this post. The phrases sound pretty, like “mouthless continuity” and “sweeping swell”, but who is this written to? Who is “dear dear”? Is this poetry? Is this for a woman or a city? Is the city a metaphor for a person?
a little bit of both. originally written for a woman, long since gone.