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between the glass and the flame
Jul. 6th, 2024 10:52 pmthe way things make you soft, like longing plain in the lyrics on a guitar song. It's all love, you're shouting at the world, it's all love, impatient like someone trying to chivvy along understanding, taking the child's triumphant fist and uncurling it and asking and then what? It's all love, and then what? what's more interesting then that? What's more interesting than taking the whole would asunder, trying to break it into pieces you can understand but always hoping that you wouldn't be able to, that someone will come along and show you something you don't understand and thus, change your world forever.
you want there to be someone to sing to. You want someone to understand you. it just doesn't make sense, doesn't it? More and more i feel like I can't read stories that have an end to them that's just grief that's just here it is. the end. What you learned will have to do. I don't care about that, spelled bluntly. I don't care about hopeless stories that have love in them. What about what happens next? I mean we all receive our allotted times spooled out into paper chips, the date and hour, the sound of bells and clocks ticking down. Doom spelled out. I don't care about the doom, there's always doom, in the story, in you, in the bread you eat and the water you drink, breaking down slowly. Getting impatient again like well what else? What else is there except grief, doom, simple things when you come down to it, simple like an ocean is simple because it's only made largely of salt water. Well. What there is I can tell you like this:
fortune cookie shape. the way cushions get. Sometimes you squat down level to a cat's height and imagine yourself enormous and breathing loudly. Sometimes you remember a friend passing a hand over your forehead and heat like summer beating down. Another hand; easy reaching. You quantify love in many different ways, some of them serious. Smile around your open hand, make him step into the rain. make her say, i still love you, make yourself breakfast, im fixated on the shape of things, on the moment of things, on this exact moment in fact, typing with my chin on my knee on my laptop like i did as a teenager on the floor of my room in that Stewart avenue house, between the doorway and the bed. On the moment I can make you laugh, make your eyes widen, make you do a stupid thing just to show off, there is only this, right now, before the doom comes. There is only what you choose to do when the price is already paid.
a friend's hand in mine and the snow coming down, cold. I am not alone.
you want there to be someone to sing to. You want someone to understand you. it just doesn't make sense, doesn't it? More and more i feel like I can't read stories that have an end to them that's just grief that's just here it is. the end. What you learned will have to do. I don't care about that, spelled bluntly. I don't care about hopeless stories that have love in them. What about what happens next? I mean we all receive our allotted times spooled out into paper chips, the date and hour, the sound of bells and clocks ticking down. Doom spelled out. I don't care about the doom, there's always doom, in the story, in you, in the bread you eat and the water you drink, breaking down slowly. Getting impatient again like well what else? What else is there except grief, doom, simple things when you come down to it, simple like an ocean is simple because it's only made largely of salt water. Well. What there is I can tell you like this:
fortune cookie shape. the way cushions get. Sometimes you squat down level to a cat's height and imagine yourself enormous and breathing loudly. Sometimes you remember a friend passing a hand over your forehead and heat like summer beating down. Another hand; easy reaching. You quantify love in many different ways, some of them serious. Smile around your open hand, make him step into the rain. make her say, i still love you, make yourself breakfast, im fixated on the shape of things, on the moment of things, on this exact moment in fact, typing with my chin on my knee on my laptop like i did as a teenager on the floor of my room in that Stewart avenue house, between the doorway and the bed. On the moment I can make you laugh, make your eyes widen, make you do a stupid thing just to show off, there is only this, right now, before the doom comes. There is only what you choose to do when the price is already paid.
a friend's hand in mine and the snow coming down, cold. I am not alone.
