Despite the innate contradiction I do want it
The world seems at times a gorgeous timid sphere spinning only for knowing how to spin. When I am listening to this music it's as if nothing else should make sense. When I look into your eyes the softness is remarkable. I exist only to eat and sleep and touch your stomach. Make my own monumental dreams where the ending is the opposite of touching a paper metal wall. The opposite of knowing there is nothing beyond its steel falsehood, nothing under my tower of aching joists, nothing to keep us from simply falling sideways into the blue, far across the horizon where people are only as large as the perspective above allows us to see them in relation to the landscape. Knowing colors are a reason to get up in the morning. Looking for what we had received and finding shades of pearl and tiny animals pressed into clay, shapes to remind us there are others alive who know how we sound in the morning. Who have known it for years, learned it hard and are smart enough not to forget the lesson. Much smarter than me in fact. Where I am almost on the verge of tears thinking of it, any day you ask me, any day we are lucky enough to make a vision together.
I want babies with you, with your face and your soft hair and your way of forgiving any greivance, which I should have elucidated more clearly the other day on the couch. It and my troubled thoughts trying to eat us alive, throw us on the floor, keep our legs from making a basket for our bodies above. Where the cold seeps in unbelievable cracks, wood touching glass and coming up brittle and old. Knowing all my sins are the summations of my nightmares, come alive and after me in the early hours before mist and white break clear and dissipate my fright.
I'm terrified of making a mistake, ten years ago, tomorrow, any day I'm lucky enough to wake up and try to remember that vision I thought I had, for days when the sky is a skirt above my head and the hands touching mine are yet to turn cold. Where waxy is a distant future. Where blue is only against white, and bedtime assurances mean the difference between black and nearly so. I know this way of thinking and it has led to so much crying. Still it's hard to let go of because any other play seems a farce. A shameful comedy of sorts. A place where I think I can sing and friends are only there to let me know otherwise. To be let down slowly, over a period of years, to be led to believe my hair should cover my eyes and getting contacts is only another reason to endure an insult. I've spent a lot of time watching myself in the mirror after everyone else has settled into bed. My eyes start to seem important when nothing else is there against them. I know I'm not the only one but it does nothing to diminish the experience.
Even now I can remember parts of dreams where it's not all bad. Quiet neutral expanses of wave, dim reflective blue, whales coming out of the mist, metaphorically, but truly, the sun a bright bright place on the horizon where we needn't speak, only drive around curves looking for castles in the risen light. Less than hours, put together, even after days have gone by. Buoys close enough to identify. Colors manmade fading from the sheer size of the rest of it. Knowing there is so much underneath us I can't even begin to understand all the silver scales and how the fish hide from the monsters of the deep. Knowing this marriage of water and rock and that even solid things absorb liquid. They're full of it, in every cell, every mitochondrian corner where the biggest things start as only fractions of fractions. I do believe small movements are felt across the longest expanses of space and time. Even tragically, negligible maybe, it did happen and some thing, somewhere, knew it, or felt the impression. I believe in redemption. I believe in acceleration. I believe sleeping next to someone makes a difference. I keep books forever, or as close to it as I can muster. Printed with the image of you at your most vulnerable, under my eyes, breathing rough but smoother all the time, cleaner, softer, pinker, but maybe even black is all right if we can make that promise. I can be so unbelievably strong. Just ask me.
I want babies with you, with your face and your soft hair and your way of forgiving any greivance, which I should have elucidated more clearly the other day on the couch. It and my troubled thoughts trying to eat us alive, throw us on the floor, keep our legs from making a basket for our bodies above. Where the cold seeps in unbelievable cracks, wood touching glass and coming up brittle and old. Knowing all my sins are the summations of my nightmares, come alive and after me in the early hours before mist and white break clear and dissipate my fright.
I'm terrified of making a mistake, ten years ago, tomorrow, any day I'm lucky enough to wake up and try to remember that vision I thought I had, for days when the sky is a skirt above my head and the hands touching mine are yet to turn cold. Where waxy is a distant future. Where blue is only against white, and bedtime assurances mean the difference between black and nearly so. I know this way of thinking and it has led to so much crying. Still it's hard to let go of because any other play seems a farce. A shameful comedy of sorts. A place where I think I can sing and friends are only there to let me know otherwise. To be let down slowly, over a period of years, to be led to believe my hair should cover my eyes and getting contacts is only another reason to endure an insult. I've spent a lot of time watching myself in the mirror after everyone else has settled into bed. My eyes start to seem important when nothing else is there against them. I know I'm not the only one but it does nothing to diminish the experience.
Even now I can remember parts of dreams where it's not all bad. Quiet neutral expanses of wave, dim reflective blue, whales coming out of the mist, metaphorically, but truly, the sun a bright bright place on the horizon where we needn't speak, only drive around curves looking for castles in the risen light. Less than hours, put together, even after days have gone by. Buoys close enough to identify. Colors manmade fading from the sheer size of the rest of it. Knowing there is so much underneath us I can't even begin to understand all the silver scales and how the fish hide from the monsters of the deep. Knowing this marriage of water and rock and that even solid things absorb liquid. They're full of it, in every cell, every mitochondrian corner where the biggest things start as only fractions of fractions. I do believe small movements are felt across the longest expanses of space and time. Even tragically, negligible maybe, it did happen and some thing, somewhere, knew it, or felt the impression. I believe in redemption. I believe in acceleration. I believe sleeping next to someone makes a difference. I keep books forever, or as close to it as I can muster. Printed with the image of you at your most vulnerable, under my eyes, breathing rough but smoother all the time, cleaner, softer, pinker, but maybe even black is all right if we can make that promise. I can be so unbelievably strong. Just ask me.