Monday, June 24, 2013

All the Forms Imaginable

I cannot write love letters anymore. Sue me. All I have are these sentences and - elsewhere - the meager exposition of what I barely understand. I pour everything into them. Everything. And wait to be saved by whoever understands what I'm trying to say.

If you know better, tell me.

And if you have the means, don't fucking hoard them: I'm going down out here: I need you.

I am giving in the only way I know - the way that was given me to give. When you are not there, I am broken yet more. How can I lie to the one who creates me, day after day, moment after moment? And still  the silence continues, still the shadows roll in from the west, in the form of clouds, in the form of differences, in all the forms imaginable.

What do I have to say? Where do I have to say it?

Touch me gently or release me to some other. Grasshoppers leap into the distance and continue singing. I went walking - awake nearly two days and still I went walking - just to see the moon near midnight. And to say: thank you: and to wonder: are you there?

Do you read this? Will you respond?

How open must I pry myself - how wordy must I be - before you consent to bring me with you home?

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