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
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