(no subject)
I'm not writing a eulogy yet.
I'm not writing an end to the parts of me sad and lonely and wanting either.
I'm murmuring the first four lines of Li-Young Lee's This Room and Everything In It in my mind.
I'm remembering three touches, the first three touches, under a table: an accidental brush-and-recoil, a reassurance, a welcome.
I'm remembering hanging shirts backwards on hangers, collarfront-to-collarfront, as a spell to bring him back.
I'm remembering the first times we sang in the car together, when I'd drive him back across the whole length of the sleeping city to the train, and more recently when we were driving together and I'd thought that closeness was lost.
I'm remembering his wrists tattooed with yin and yang.
I'm remembering-
I'm not writing an end to the parts of me sad and lonely and wanting either.
I'm murmuring the first four lines of Li-Young Lee's This Room and Everything In It in my mind.
I'm remembering three touches, the first three touches, under a table: an accidental brush-and-recoil, a reassurance, a welcome.
I'm remembering hanging shirts backwards on hangers, collarfront-to-collarfront, as a spell to bring him back.
I'm remembering the first times we sang in the car together, when I'd drive him back across the whole length of the sleeping city to the train, and more recently when we were driving together and I'd thought that closeness was lost.
I'm remembering his wrists tattooed with yin and yang.
I'm remembering-