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March 24, 2008 - 7:22 p.m.
Generosity Lack words of love forgotten place of origin, space of love empty emptied of meaning I am sending you nothing but happiness nothing I hear and happiness, I have it already but thank you i try to say it openly without curled lips spitting at the image of Dorian becoming uglier only to me I would not paint you ---would not dare to I have come so close to destroying the picture of you in my head I feel nothing about wanting the past I feel a displaced regret about a missing love - that is not you but another, lost, not because of you, but somehow, sort of, ---yes.
---It started out bitterly, as a shoring up of supplies, a patching of holes, of places and moments of weakness, covering over the places where I felt a space, something that was there and, having gone, left an emptiness. ---But then, I looked further, to the place where oxygen is made, and realized that in spite of my anxiety, there was plenty there. I started blowing you a balloon, to send off, towards you - where you are - full of hope, happiness and well-wishes. ---I want these things for you. But I want to know that my balloon will not meet with pointed actions, words and that it will fill some place inside you, where you need a shared piece of, of what? not me, but something else, that I can give you; Support, love, the things you used to come to me for, ---the things I want to believe I could ask of you. This was an interrupted thought.
--- ---There was never a surplus of air with you ---close the air was close the feelings were close and closed we were impenetrable together now, impenetrable apart we are on two sides of the world and I want to have knowledge a tunnel to the keep to keep you close but walled, away, where I cannot see, or be hurt by you a known threat, better to suspect than to sense it, back turned I want to be the one with a catapult but all I have are cats, and they are not moats, they are not hot oil or burning arrows, the tiny beasts your messengers sounds, not words it makes me remember how comfort with you felt clawed and whiskered, a heavy weight in the night sharp and soft at once never meaning to hurt now i don't know when they curl themselves around me, they are storing up their future forgiveness, for heaps of kibble on the carpet, scratches across antiques, chips of wood, tufts of fluff, scratches unintended I can never be angry past the initial moment of surprise and pain but you --for you, from you, with you,- i have depleted my stores of calm my memories of softness ----that insulate me from anger. that are the other side of surprise at pain I don't remember anymore, what it is to be walked carefully for, to be warmed, without wondering what breach was occuring, what gate left open, what tunnel or wall stormed, leaving me open to the next moment when I would find myself without a can opener, without a roommate, without a friend, without a telephone, or coldness in the eye, tears in mine, cold grey of stairwell, stains on walls that are solely yours, not mine, with tears in the fabric around our past, worms having feasted, slept, changed and flown the fabric was a good shield, but not strong -----moths drawn away to a new light I don't know how to repair it thread bare to bare it to make it bare new fruit to fix this root this tree that is at once, many things tree of knowledge, life, offshoot of seed, water, light, spring and winter tree, well seasoned, strong, weatherer of many storms, carved in its trunk with hearts and arrows through initials, carved, crossed- out carved anew again scarred and still strong, is one half of us dying ----the part that was supposed to continue on? is there a worm in this heart? if we look back, through the rings, to ages ago, will we find the splinter that split this trunk? Do we care to? Or will we swing in its branches, carve new poems there, turn our back now, unafraid of the sun, step out of the shade, but forget what relief its shade brought once. we played here, how can i split it for kindling, burn it, to get out the worm, it will not be a metaphor for my heart, which is already in pieces, from that first time. split it for kindling, my heart, already splintered i fear sharp edges and your words are sharp i cannot see anymore what is behind them and, after too many staircases, boxes and cold nights i no longer trust the hands behind the axe I know that the cut will do me good, that beneath this thick skin i am still green if you bend me I will peel and leak lead me to water i will still be thirsty but I do not know if i will recognize my root that tree that now looks like raw material for building will it be shelter? will it be a weapon? who will draw the plans can i trust the trojan horse when I look it in the mouth -- over the phone, will i see into your head? your heart? will I wait for the army to unload, or see the gift for what it is? will there be any difference between intention, action and result. I am tired of warring, I am tired of waiting, I am tired of not trusting but I have come to far to go back to the tree I just want to know what has become of it? what will we make of it when we cannot seem to agree what we made it for
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