We all start out innocent and race to lose it.

Friday, December 8, 2006

You have to walk before you can
they said
So we walked, at first,
then ran, as fast as we could,
away from anything childlike and naive
Thinking wonder was ignorance;
and cynicism was a cure for adolescence.

We discovered later on, it was more like

Where do the words go?(the ones left unspoken)

Thursday, December 7, 2006

Are they swallowed from the movement in time, ever forward, never resting, converging and separating the moments until they are so far away you can only remember them as a frequency of blue?
Early on, before our hearts knew what to do, I ran into his wake. Now, I walk slowly, to savour the pressure of my toes inside my shoes, the restraint before the final bliss of being back home.

I am in love with so much more than his body heat, but let's start there.
my love
it more resembles the tendency of sprouting seeds toward the sun
or the gentle tug of gravity that holds a chick in the depths of its nest.

Wonderingly I've been sought after, to answer their question, that simple question, "why do you love him?" In keeping my answer short, I reply shyly "He gathers me near his heart every time we dream."

If he only knew.
Lately I've woken in the night, the room barely lit, his soft whispered breath deep and sound. I lay there, tucked safely away with him, sublime, kissing the nape of his neck, sleepily scratching his back, until i fall back into my dreams.

It's a quiet revolution, falling in love with him anon. I am Eve and he is Adam. Sometimes stories have a right to be transformed.

I'm glowing, low and silent, a firefly amongst the weeds.

the desire to paint

Tuesday, December 5, 2006

unhappy perhaps is man, but happy the artist torn by desire!
I am consumed by a desire to paint a man who appears to me so rarely, at end of a tired week, like a beautiful regretted thing the voyager leaves behind as he is carried into the night.
He is handsome and more than beautiful; he is surprising. Darkness in him abounds, all that he inspires is nocturnal and profound. His eyes are two caverns where mystery dimly glistens, and like a lightning flash, his glance illuminates: it is an explosion in the dark.
I have compared him to a black sun, if one can imagine a blcak star pouring out light and happiness. But he makes one think rather of the moon, which has surely marked him with its portentious influence; not the white moon of idylls which resembles a frigid bride, but the sinister and intoxicating moon that hangs deep in a dtormy night, hurtled by the driven clouds; not the discreet and peaceful moon that visits pure men while they sleep, but the moon torn from the sky, the moon that the Thessalian Witches compel to dance on the winded grass!
That forehead is inhabited by a tenacious will and a desire for me...me?

There are men who inspire you with the desire to conquer them and take your pleasure of them, but this one fills you with the desire to die slowly beneath his gaze.