A car, discordant in its abstruse, rash beep compared to the rhythmic mewling of the cat we heard earlier, tells me for the umpteenth time...
The lot bustled earlier, Love. They wove in and out in pathways determined by the glint in the eyes of an ancestor so very long dead, an afflicted moment petrified while searching for water by its clash with sun and rock. With sun and rock, inspired and sated, he moved on and then into her and then they begat and so the begatting went until a slew of people unknowingly seeking the same glint in the eyes sought it from bulbs posted in geometrically-defined intervals between parking spaces. Amen, can I hear a halleleujah.
Galeno, all sprite tonight, you know proved the torment of my day. Were it only the memory of him rather than his here and now, somewhere I can imagine (were I unable to imagine!). Loving you and him are not at odds in me. The two twine in my alchemy of need in a way lovely, innocent, far more a flower found wedged unexpectedly in cement than what rank economic cunts such as myself construe.
If we went away when ourselves and found at the end of a dock in glowing, simple sun the remembrance and remedy of our long lives from when blue flowers at the foot of your windowsill stood, representing all of dad's love and escape from the horror of a neighour; or at the edge of my home's path, near the hedges, a ladybug landing on my tiny arm sending the same message from a blue flower its own ancestor's had once known; if we, you and I, walked sturdy, arms linked, and defied fear for just one minute, do you think our hearts on the other side of a wall find ourselves? do you think if we, with your precise turn of head intrinsic to nature's gentle order, said we know no discontinuity and accept; if we believed we met in a moment and recognized its perils in the palms of children squeezing balls of mud for laughs and to live; if we believed, you and me and I, that the rules only matter where we are, do you think..
Do you think from the grey, cobalt ash of your eyes when alight with a judgement you never squander and never know if yours, do you think: a bridge lain or a forest debunked of beauty? Did you know that I stood one day fourteen years ago near a bay after having drunk Bacchus' fill, wretched in marriage and loving it all the same, that a bit of colour spat into the clouds for no longer than a blink held, except that mine eyes did retain it; and that it made me stolid and strong in a second when to the waters I'd have thrown myself; and that seeing it I knew to walk at least one more step, one more is all, and that it was and is the colour of your face in the morning when you putter to the washroom incredibly believing yourself no more than a tired faun exposed to a life not quite your own?
People reenter the complex. They annoy. A cigarette hangs from my lips. The single sentence between mother to daughter as they leave their car enter our downstairs, sags my spirit for as long as it takes the insect scratching at my shoulders to remind me of my priorities, attention-wise. I think of you, know you're arriving soon, wonder how I'll speak to you when you've disavowed me for the night, in your mind, conceiving only of a drunkard who'll be the person you love again in the morning, mourning that loss uninspired by my will. Defiant of the implications, the mollifying platitudes of who and when and what, I'll wonder, perhaps self-indulgently, how you can wonder when and how and what when you know who I am.
Weird creature, the clue is this, the key, simple: [the post was concluded, Love]
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