Saturday, November 22, 2014

Aug 6 - Letters to Luna - Wed Morning

Luna,

 I know your head is occupied with your friend’s life hanging in the chords of womanhood and human wrapping places that vibrate most dear.  I know we have a traction that has you afraid.  There are gardens upon gardens I claim ignorance as to what flowers in your thoughts.

 It has been a week since we have seen each other.  I am balancing from a footing of deduction of you ‘barely saying anything at all.’  I am not asking or requesting, only informing.  I am hungry for your words, thoughts, you. 

 I can plan these times for us and write these poems and emails.  The flood I may express from my marrow thirsts for more of a counter release.  In time I am hoping you will be able / choose to offer such.  What I have said about my life is a core out of historical context.  Part of me wants to walk slowly towards giving you that context, however to do so would be disproportional.

 In a pairing one does not watch the other fall behind.  I am doing my best to wait for you to catch your breath.  It beseeches a manner of nascent faith in me like a new copy of a pair of shoes similar to ones I wore as a child in adult size barely worn.  Faith requires a shoe horn for me, an intention and I know from my past how tenuous my relationships with mists like faith and hope are. 

 In my gut I hope that this pacing is allowing you to prepare yourself to open in a way that will feed our growth.  In another partition I am brought to a darker place my poetic pith absorbing the starkness of unreciprocated communication soaks in the aroma of predecessor women.  Just as you can make your future daily, so do I wade in the still waters, contemplative, but aware of the ships wrecked on the ocean floor.  To rush churns waves the break of which may topple us and fill our mouths with brine.

 In the moment I would like you take the reins a bit more in our dynamic.  I wrote that email on Friday.  I called on Sunday evening.  I emailed about dinner on Monday.  I got your texts and the email about the seafood.  I know you are coated in sadness and were out of town.

 I can sense you are a deep woman.  I know the cogs are ticking in your mental space away from me.  Your last email said in an interrogatory that you were starting to have feelings for me. 

 In the beginning of two humans pairing the timing of the neurochemicals at the impetus flush the system with a stabilizing chemical memory that often in historical reflection becomes a touchstone of reminder as the novel recycles into time’s potential repetitive hum.  I would like to, as we have been doing, to use some of this time in part to try to build that chemical memory with you.  This space, on my end, if left prolonged disparity, may drip into memories of a horse not being fed.  I do not wish to feel that way and given time I will ride away.

 I spent a good bit of time chopping vegetables, mixing spices, preparing the emulsion, a salsa, and a glaze for the crab.  I pulled the meat from their bodies.  The mixtures are waiting in my refrigerator.  I made that with hands of hope.  You did not ask me to do that.  I am being vulnerable here.  I would rather throw that away than eat that meal alone.

 I know you have things going on, you can share your world with me if you so elect.  Last Wednesday in emitting on the sofa I felt you did not wish to be held; you did not seek a verbal retort; you seemed to wish for a shelf to put your words and share the weight for a moment before you pressed what is back upon your capable shoulders.

 I am here for you.  If you need a face, a back massage, to be heard, I am here.  I would like my hope to say in time when there is pressure upon you, the old war of turning inward or outward, you will see me as a haven.  So in I would like to find that common land in your blue eyes.

 I know it can be scary.  Life is a flicker, the glint in a star’s death peppering an indifferent canvas.  I have written a few poems in the past week.  I am not going to share them here, only a slip of a sentiment; I am tired of waiting for my life to begin.  I see promise in what we could be, but you have to assert what you want. 

 Whatever fields you have burned from things not working in the past, if you are to hold me those are the hands you must use.  Do not fear who you are as a rationale for not approaching me.  The full you and the full me is the only vessel in which we stand a chance.


 Severus

No comments:

Post a Comment