(no subject)
I've been desperate of late to capture on film the trembling of my hands and the color of your hair as the sun dribbles down to it through layers of green (the thin and crumbling parchment to which I dictate my soul's desires ((and yes, I have a soul, lover, I have a burning aching enormous soul that cannot be satisfied by anything, not even mountains dressed in mist)). I'm so afraid of not remembering, even with a town full of kisses tugging on my pantleg, begging to be seen. Sometimes I try to remove all the colors, as if by doing so I could find the singularity (which is maybe just a scientist's name for soul) in you and in the universe. Maybe then I would finally rest and be able to believe you're mine. Sometimes I imagine a bed without any clocks and other times I imagine broken concrete without any yous, and both seem impossible. But, as usual, I've forgotten to tell you what I set out to say, which is that today was a good day and I love you in a better way now than I ever did before.