All those love letters.

I would practice writing them when I was young, to the favored soul of my affections.
Each carefully folded note, was art, an afternoon in dedication, to desire.

And on the page, I'd sweep ridiculous sentiments, in blue, the twilight winter sort, because black will not do. Words on the face, & on the threadbare spine. I'd illustrate, on the paper, with stars & other images.

Art, & art.

It was the romantic poet in me.
You could bottle those letters. Tie them in satin ribbon.
Hang them from ceilings, or throw them somewhere dark.

So much potent emotion; you could swim in the feelings, or float in these steady, moonlit oceans.

It was a romance. Belief was irrelevant; only the quality of the ink mattered. It was a token of my affections, truths polished into beautiful fiction.

It was a world, & I consolidated it for you. You dreamt it first.
It was the stuff that caught your fancy, favorite bits from strangers' lives, & film.

Everyone wants to fall in love. It's just the particulars that are different.

Your love was a world, a scape that was unbodied & incomplete.
Something left to be desired. It was the emotion that was lacking. You had the lines, & drafts in your mind. Maybe it was the sense of something, beyond you.

So I filled it. I spilled narrative into your hidden wishes. I took your truths, cast dramatic, flattering light; filled in the shadows, softly, but deftly, like any sincere artist, & made the universe gleam.

You had a base, a rough charcoal sketch on an art-store canvas. I chanced upon it. I said I loved it. I said I wanted to see it. And you loved the way I was excited about this work, this expression of this inner world of yours. You loved how serious I took your concept of romance & desire. It was validation, which you didn't need, but liked, loved. And you wanted more. So you started sketching, more carefully. I'd bring interesting pigment, the constructive support, and the praise, and you began coloring, and it was not fast enough for your liking, so I'd help shade in the empty spaces, using my fingers & brushes. You'd have trouble with sharp detailing in some areas, and I'd make it prettier.

I loved the process. You put yourself into it. You were making something beautiful. Most times, I just looked on, interluding with affection. It was your concept; I was just the appreciative freelance mercenary.

And then the work was finished.
And it was lovely, so I said so. And as it dried, I congratulated you, & curtsied.
I kissed you, and it was not the, "Yes, look at you, my love, my one-and-only champion, let's live in this world of desire.", but more of a "Well, that was fun, and look at those highlights, but I'm exhausted and still have so many things to do. Maybe next-time, and you're tired, too, aren't you?"


-----


Was it about desire? Sex, with a twist of intimacy? Love?
Do we need to run literary criticism on outdated, parallel narratives?

It was your fantasy.
What is mine? I don't have one.

I lived a few, a long time ago, when I was younger, & more restless, & less happy.

Now, I live in the real world.

Is realism is ugly? I don't think so.

I love the truth, darling. I love reality.

I love the concrete, & the rain, & wandering in the city in the dark. I live my romance. I'm in love with the evening, & the sweet warmth of the streetlights, and couples all about. I love my scarves, & the poetry. I love coffee, black, or tea, earl grey, in the tall cup, in my hand.

Why did I help you make your world then? / I felt like it. I wanted to. You wanted me to.
It's just not my world. It's not the image of my happiness. What is the image of my happiness then? Doesn't look like the one I helped you build. You've got a fantasy world you like to escape into, and I'm an escape-artist, in all senses. I craft fantasies. I just don't care to live in them.

I didn't lie to you.

It was just what we were doing. I didn't promise things I couldn't promise, and you can't promise that sort of thing anyway. I don't love the way you loved. I didn't want to stay. You'll find other characters. You'll be okay.

You were lonely, and maybe you thought I'd make it stop.

I'm not lonely. 
I'm in love. I've been in love.

When I meet him, I won't even know.

We will be madly in love with each other, and not even know. We won't recognize it. We might not even be together for very long. Our lives might not even fit, but right there, in that very moment of intersection, it will be love. Who I am, at that very moment, and who he is, at that very moment, those two souls as they exist, will have found home, will have found a oneness.

And I will think, that I will never fall in love again, because I'm already in love.

I can't lay in bed with you, nor any other, because my heart wants to be out in the streets.
He is out there. The air is cold, but lovely.  My coat hugs my body, but it's this love that keeps me warm.

My love, is the stars in winter, & dark, clear skies.

My love, is the snow on Friday evenings. My love, is slush, & boots, & the view of alleyways on fire-escapes. My love, is 3am, and we are so tired, & wired-tired. My love, is not daylight, but pillows pushed up by the windows, and a mixture of cold, & naked bodyheat. My love, is I-am-so-sick-and-the-dark-of-my-room-and-the-dim-light-of-my-computer-is-a-comfort. My love, is the echo of pop-dance songs, and some other soulful music, in the back of my head. My love is paint, and the Met on a Friday night alone, in the modern gallery. My love, loves me, and does not, all in the same way. My love, is an existential despair on Saturdays, and the solace of solo wanders in afternoon sunshine on Sundays, and is a work that is loved, and not loved, all at the same time. My love, is digital paperwork, which translates to striking visuals & heartfelt feelings, on white screens.

My love, is poems, and not-love-letters.


This is not a love letter. I am not writing my undying love. This is not an emotional fantasy, which love sometimes is. This is not airport goodbyes & a flood of tears.

I am not saying anything.

I'm leaving.
I'm walking out my door, and it is a Thursday evening in November, and I'm in love with nobody.

but the gods are all asleep

Dear Joan,

Do you ever lie, curled up on your bed, at four in the morning, and think, God, I’m a mess?

I can see you, in the dark, in my mind. Envision, is the better word.

Your eyes are blank, and open. You’re lying on your side, with your short, stiff, blonde-gray bob. You have wrinkles, things that your body wrought.

I think you’re a creature of restraint, although I’ve read that you hosted a party for the Ramones.

I suppose that you don’t actually lie in the dark.

Maybe you sit in chairs.

I don’t think that you write anymore. Not at four, in the morning. Your hands are stiff. The circulation goes out. Old wiring, and pretty, faulty bulbs. You have a frail body, but I don’t think of you as fragile, in any sense.

It’s always too cold, so much so, that you’re used to it, that the clammy iciness of your hands are comforting, to the few who’ve gotten close enough to you, but also to yourself. Mostly, primarily, to yourself.

It’s reassuring, the chill, in the soft of your fingers, and the cup of your hand, that armchairs, presses into your face. Cheekbone. Your jaw, under that flesh. Living bones are fragile, firm. The medial, orbital wall beneath your eyes. Light and capillaries. Knitwork of the gods.

That half of an inhale of air, of night, quiet apartments, and dim lighting. The city lingers in, titian and shadow. The sound of your own slow breath, streaming shallowly, into the bathtub of your lungs. You never take deep, full breaths, but you don’t know why. You try, but it never comes, never feels right.

You don’t sleep, but you breathe, like a sleeper, whose body will sometimes jerk in the night.

You are running, in your stillness, but your body dreams of falling. It’s a betrayal; you know. There is no flight in these bones, so you don’t fight, but you sit.

And sometimes, you lie down. You look at the light, and at your things, and you lie down, because your body wants it. You want it.

The pillows are kind, but you press your cheek against the sheets, and listen, to the bed. Soft creaks, and your heartbeat. Just like in the floor, when you were a young child. Great heights from unsteady tables. The running, back and forth, as fast, as hard as you could, slamming your body into those badly-painted iron fences.

How could sleep ever be enough? How could anything?