(no subject)
"Why did you never succeed in leaving her alone? Did you think she would change her mind?"
"No. But it was a compulsion."
A year later, he had all but forgotten her. The taste of carrots glittered in his mind every tenth or twelfth time he saw her, but it did not really bother him. He expected he would always remember that taste, and viscerally too, even if he never kissed her again.
What else? Burn... but his heart, it didn't ...or rather, it did, it burned, and so desperately too, that it often seemed like a force that would appear and quickly disappear again, as a temperal storm would, with the changing winds.... he would meet various beautiful girls, take them out for a coffee, entice them with plans of travelling, and poetry, then... they would disappoint him, or he them, and one or the other between them would disappear. A physical memory would follow them around for a day or two- in the lips, in the legs- but usually they could avoid each other long enough to get past that. It was never a problem.
But
Somehow
All of this felt sick --
What could he do to escape this pattern? And why didn't he love the carrot girl?
.
.
.
Eventually he got bored and stopped thinking about girls or love. He got kisses from rabbits on a farm in Kentucky. Stones of forest fires warmed his heart. Fireflies on summer porch nights gave him hope and the inspriation nercessary to write:
Northern gist
obliviate the afternoon
in carnation blooms
against a pale and reckless
cheek of moon
Nothing frail remains
though fragile curses hang
beneath my tongue
and wrap the steady dark
of willow branches -
Get out.