(no subject)
I miss everything. I miss JE tonight. I know I say it often, but tonight it just must be the collection of the silence around me, swirling through the humidity to choke me. I just don't understand so much about life. I don't understand why so many people die so young. Marilyn Monroe would have been eighty this year. It makes me melancholy to think that life is so short and goes by so wretchedly quickly with such slow pains. I don't understand the sciences of it, and to be honest, I don't think the smartest person at Eton or Yale could explain anything like Love, or life, and the shortness of it. The honesty of it all is that it matters who you've loved, because thats the person that God sent to you for a brief shining moment to breathe you, live you, and in some cases, worship. I miss my JE tonight. It hurts especially badly sometimes when I don't intend to think of it at all. But then there it is, sloping down to surround me until I feel the only release is to run away and hide and cry until it passes; this feeling that I'll never have anything like that ever again. The rest of the world seems winter compared to the warmth I've known. I've known warmth stronger than this earth could ever in all her jealousy, generate. I am not ashamed of the one I've loved. I'm not ashamed at all. I miss the moments, those glorious moments of bliss that I know I'll never have on the same level again.
In some ways he is dead to me, and yet, in others, I feel him breathe on me with a lovely thought carried on a dove's feathers.
The other morning we woke to find a dead dove lying on the front steps; and it pained me. I wonder if my JE is breathing, sleeping, and if alone? I consider the possiblilty that he may be resting beside someone who'll never love him the same as I could, or perhaps he is with his new child, reading a story. I wonder if he tells my stories, or the ones we shared. I wonder if I pass by in his mind on pleasant nights, with decent conversation. Or maybe I just pass by on those bottle filled nights when his memory of me is a hazy recollection of my stare.
If this is what it feels like to be in heaven, always wondering about the ones left behind,then I want to go home. I'm always searching for it- never exactly locating the place. It's scattered a bit, here and there, like my memories and my life. Spread from region to region in a metamorpheses of faces and names, half of which we've all forgotten.
I know he thinks of me. I wish he would write, call, perhaps just send hate on the wind with his ciggarette smoke. Any transgression I may have committed is unknown to me. Any thing I may have said or written that would have been offensive or ill-willed, I do not know of it.
I know that tonight I am a man with arms that fall widely empty and cold. And my hands ache for touch, and my heart longs for recollections that are dimming even to my memory.
In some ways he is dead to me, and yet, in others, I feel him breathe on me with a lovely thought carried on a dove's feathers.
The other morning we woke to find a dead dove lying on the front steps; and it pained me. I wonder if my JE is breathing, sleeping, and if alone? I consider the possiblilty that he may be resting beside someone who'll never love him the same as I could, or perhaps he is with his new child, reading a story. I wonder if he tells my stories, or the ones we shared. I wonder if I pass by in his mind on pleasant nights, with decent conversation. Or maybe I just pass by on those bottle filled nights when his memory of me is a hazy recollection of my stare.
If this is what it feels like to be in heaven, always wondering about the ones left behind,then I want to go home. I'm always searching for it- never exactly locating the place. It's scattered a bit, here and there, like my memories and my life. Spread from region to region in a metamorpheses of faces and names, half of which we've all forgotten.
I know he thinks of me. I wish he would write, call, perhaps just send hate on the wind with his ciggarette smoke. Any transgression I may have committed is unknown to me. Any thing I may have said or written that would have been offensive or ill-willed, I do not know of it.
I know that tonight I am a man with arms that fall widely empty and cold. And my hands ache for touch, and my heart longs for recollections that are dimming even to my memory.