Sunday, June 26, 2016
Soap Bubbles of Love
Suddenly the text declines to be contained - by bodies, by books, by the sky. Et cetera. The moon falls through its own light, my arms become transparent, and that which I once longed to clasp becomes the latter half of a long sentence, this. Trailing bird song, distance eternally swallowing ideals, all morning sitting quietly without me. Without me, no you, and without you, no me. In a lot of ways, hell is just blind reliance on pronouns. The lovely but unwieldy whole, the way peonies own the sadness we sought for a thousand lifetimes, and cheap coffee and cheaper wine, and a place to go that is nobody else's. No more poems about fireflies please and also, stop pretending you can't see in darkness, how else do you know to call it darkness? Michael's elephant takes Michael's road to Mount Fuji, and I let him go and what remains. In the end, the map is that part of the territory the territory declines to be contained by. We were foolish but so what? Life is punctuated by weddings and funerals and really they're just a way of reminding one to pause, to go slower, to notice briefly the joy that is never not attending. More chairs, thinner soup and the soap bubbles of love just multiply and glisten. You want a candle? You couldn't get more clean or obedient, you couldn't be a better girl. In terms of this - this this - nobody lit the way nicer.
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