This is the true and impossible story of my very great love. In the hope that she will not read this and reproach me, I have withheld many telling details: her name, the particulars of her birth and upbringing, and any identifying scars or birth marks. All the same, I cannot help but write this for her, to tell her “I am sorry for every word I wrote to change you, I am sorry for so many things. I could not see you when you were here and, now that you are gone, I see you everywhere.” One may read this and think it is magic, but falling in love is an act of magic, so is writing. It was once said of Catcher In The Rye, “That rare miracle of fiction has again come to pass: a human being has been created out of ink, paper and the imagination.” I am no J.D. Salinger, but I have witnessed a rare miracle. Any writer can attest: in the luckiest, happiest state, the words are not coming from you, but through you. She came to me wholly herself; I was just lucky enough… to be there to catch her.
If you spend all of your time planning for the future,
you will miss out on the present life
that is happening all around you…
Keep your excitement in the present;
you will look back on your staid life years from now…
and wish you had reveled more in those wonderful, just-started moments… instead of obsessively planning…
The next steps.
(Where you may fall in…)
For a long while now I have suspected the connection with another person, real connection, simply is not possible. I am curious if you disagree, although I suspect you feel as I do in this, as you do in so many other things. So tell me; is it possible to truly know another person? Is it even a worthwhile pursuit?
Yours is the only opinion I will trust, the only point of view that holds even the faintest interest. I find my diversions, as I always do, but the days are long in this grey place.
I dearly hope you will write soon.
They are both convinced
that a sudden passion joined them.
Such certainty is beautiful
but uncertainty is more beautiful still.
Since they had never met before, they are sure
that there had been nothing between them.
But what is the word from the streets, staircases, hallways –
perhaps they have passed each other by a million times?
I want to ask them
if they do not remember –
a moment face to face
in some revolving door?
perhaps a “sorry” muttered in a crowd?
a curt “wrong number” caught in the receiver? –
but I know the answer.
No, they do not remember.
They would be amazed to hear
that Chance has been toying with them
now for years.
Not quite ready yet
to become their Destiny,
it pushed them close, drove them apart,
it barred their path,
stifling a laugh,
and then leaped aside.
There were signs and signals
even if they could not read them yet.
Perhaps three years ago
or just last Tuesday
a certain leaf fluttered
from one shoulder to another?
Something was dropped and then picked up.
Who knows, maybe the ball that vanished
into childhood’s thickets?
There were doorknobs and doorbells
where one touch had covered another
Suitcases checked and standing side by side.
One night perhaps some dream
grown hazy by morning.
is only a sequel, after all,
and the book of events
is always open halfway through.
Monday, July 29, 2013
I watched you. I walked past you as you showered. Your body perfect. Your skin the milky white that they only speak of in literature… but the color that no one accepts presently, or desires to be.
I could see your curves as the water ran down your skin. The sliding doors of the shower partly open - though not the part where I could see you clearly. No, you were at the other end because that is where the showerhead was. Your fingers running through your brown hair as you tilted your head upward to meet the water. Your eyes closed as it did and your hair lay flatly to your back from the water.
I stood there… in the hallway as you reached for a towel… your hands showing unobstructed through the opening… and placed it on while still in the shower.
But you lived in a different city. You were going to university. I know because you had shown me it earlier… and I saw its beautiful stone exterior… on a road whose name I cannot remember… but I knew the area and so I zoned out, attempting to find how close it was to where I once lived.
But I stopped. I figured it did not matter.
Monday, July 24, 2017
What if I told you that the life you were currently living…
Was not the one you were supposed to be living?
What if I could prove to you that it has been nothing more than a dream?
Would you take a leap of faith and believe me so that you could live your real dream… your real life? And not simply go to sleep each day… only to be [in]active… in a false world? Or would you doubt me and remain in a study of reverie… where all that you dreamt and hoped of and for… back when you were still actually awake… took over?
You are dreaming.
There is a quality about women who choose men sparingly;
It appears in their walk
In their eyes
In their laughter and in their
Women who have had too many men
Seem to choose the next one out of revenge
Rather than with
When you play the field selfishly, everything
Works against you:
One cannot insist on love or
You are finally left with whatever
You have been willing to give
Which often is:
[And so she covered all of her mirrors
So that she could never see the truth.
It is easier that way…]