Love letter # 118
The year is strewn with anniversaries. It never used to be that way. I used to live outside of the measures – or so I thought. I called myself an arrow – not a drum beat. Now I dance in time.
I used to scorn days like this – until last year. I was still in the city. Couples everywhere. Why did I go out that night? To be with you – or to leave you at home?
I went to look at lovers. I may not have been aware of it but I wanted to see that thing – that thing that lovers have. Their warm, hot melding. Their allowing. The thing I had with you – which I had never known. Abjection. Diminution. The opening of the veins. The rapture. The true sense of another. The overwhelming light of a greater power. Not a God necessarily – something more primitive. More like the very grit from which the idea of me is constructed. Something before ideas. Not a noun. A verb. Like a river. Like a rainstorm. Like the primal pool of sex.
So how has it been a year since then? I guess I must have blinked.
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