I want to curl up in your familiarity, which I perceive as safety,
even if I’m wrong. And what if we’re wrong? Hiding under a blanket of you
so we can hang out here on the edge of life, loving and pretending
that it won’t all be coming out cold.
Who am I missing? Who might *you* be missing as I monopolize
your time to stay here and feel safe.
Never wanted you to be a regret of mine, but sometimes
the sky is flat and I’m afraid I know:
Know the motions of detach are coming; know the movement
of these days won’t count somehow, because we’re cheating.
Always was hard to walk uphill
under a wandering sky.
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So full of want and, dare I presume, regret?
I’ve started to think of walking uphill in positive ways — a way to reach out and touch that sky.
I love the phrase “curl up in your familiarity.”
Vivid emotions and perfectly impressed. Brilliant. I can touch exactly what you are saying.
I sense your rhythms here (or do I imagine, project them?) – dear rhythms of breathing, waking and sleeping, tossing and turning, coming and going, moon rise and moon set, the waves – dark troughs and translucent spattering crests breaking, opening, merging, receiving. What else…?
Friends disappearing, vanishing, sometimes returning and time’s unrolling out to its end over nothing, or something? It’s all so confusing…the cave painters, Paul Gauguin, all of us scrawling the same questions on our art, sculpture, dance, film-making, our poetry, our writing, our singing: Who are we? What are we? Where do we come from? Where are we going?
You bring me into these places sometimes when I return here. It’s sort of like coming home. Serenity, melancholy, joy, love, sorrow, affection. The real deal, the real thing.