Mine

Dear dear,

The rain is long and the night is short and I am somewhere in between missing you and remembering you and telling myself that one should never start with rain, especially when we began with a sleek, soaked summer at a bar where the drinks were overpriced and there were far too many people in the universe and wild, furious cars pounded the city for a prowl of flesh fit for the lame taxidermist of deflated leather, for the chameleon gawk, for the carnality of another person passed by who will not be so privileged to sit in this vehicle and feel infinite in the cough of the wind, but my hand brushed hers, did you hear that – my hand brushed hers, and in the bar I felt her thigh as well as if I were handwriting and forgot to curl a letter, and she, you, looked at me, really looked at me, with a gaze that proved that one needed to do no more than be to become the world, that said that all of art was inaccurate at best and a gross approximation at worst, that held a heartbeat in each blink, and that asked me to realize that every poem is an entire collection of poetry, every slight hug is copious, public lovemaking , and every chance to kiss in every place should be taken every time, and I could not understood why I was here instead of someone else, someone greater, someone who would know what to do this heart babbling madness, someone who would ask in frank foolishness where were the men who could see she was a dream awoken, where were the men who knew her smile could solve any problem even if it would create them, where were the men who watched as I watched for her, you, dear, was to be taken in in each minute measure – carefully at first so as to not forgo one thing like a baby learning its limits, then in overwhelming openness that the spring buds must feel after a lingering winter, then not at all for to think she could be detained, contained, was ridiculous smallness that we, and I, have known, and she did not make one small with a laugh that cracked the darkness with a sweet, soft brightness, with a demeanor that put her in the center of any room despite now sitting at the corner of the bar, with a loveliness, simply that – love, love, love, which brings us back to my place where I cannot understand how I got here with a butt that can bend the moon and pull the waters of my blood to it and that is matched by breasts that hold up the jealous air and that lead to lips with a sudden, unremovable redness as though you had spent your whole life kissing or that somehow there was a flame in you, and there was, for though I meant to say something after the after, to be clever, to show that I am worthy of this being who was worthy of every being, in a space of a night, everything changed. Light reigned. Words were wrecked. And I became yours.

Yours yours yours,
Kacper

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