I love you.
I will always love you.
It lies in our hands in crystalstoo intricate to decipherIt goes into the skilletwithout being given a second thoughtIt spills on the floor so finewe step all over itWe carry a pinch behind each eyeballIt breaks out on our foreheadsWe store it inside our bodiesin secret wineskinsAt supper, we pass it around the tabletalking of holidays and the sea.
I try to think of something to say to remind you of how I feel. I consider sending a Neruda poem; decide it’s too obvious. I’ve always opted for subtlety in the way I cared for you, and nothing about the way Neruda writes is subtle, is it? It’s epic and consuming, all-encompassing and unyielding. This is not how I feel. Though what I feel is still love, and if Neruda knows anything, it’s a love poem.
“Locate her biggest flaw: her eyes look squished on her forehead. She doesn’t eat meat. Her favorite author is Thoreau. Recognize that this, crazy, little thing is what makes her character pop. Understand it, process it, and then tell her that it’s okay. Don’t try to change her, ever. Remind her that everyone has something. Mushrooms give you goose bumps and you sleep with a night light –you’ll struggle to admit.
When she drops her overflowing glass of Pinot Grigio onto the floor and the mini- kaleidoscope pieces of glass surround you, watch for her to try pick them up and then, pick her up. Look at her straight into her hourglass eyes and laugh, laugh until the sound bounces off the wooden walls and you are officially the loudest people in this overpriced bar. Then, hold her close and tell her you absolutely adore her and her gorgeously clumsy ways. Tell her that you’ve never met anyone like her in the world; and mean it. Mean it terribly so.”
With the smartphone and the ability to instantly zap words and feelings to anyone half way around the world, inflection and inference are often left by the wayside. As such, words tend to be taken at face value, unless otherwise affected by factors like…
I never dreamt I would fall in love with the desert.
I am a mountains and oceans girl.
Rivers. Lakes. Waves.
Water, always water, thirst never quenched.
How could a pile of rocks and a cactus ever compare?
But what I didn’t know then, and what I do know now, is that finding beauty in the rubble, in the hard, sharp edges, and seven shades of tan, finding true real heart expanding beauty in the desert, that is when you know it’s real.
You were with me there. Even when I didn’t know it.
your life is your life
don’t let it be clubbed into dank submission.
be on the watch.
there are ways out.
there is a light somewhere.
it may not be much light but
it beats the darkness.
be on the watch.
the gods will offer you chances.
you can’t beat death but
you can beat death in life, sometimes.
and the more often you learn to do it,
the more light there will be.
your life is your life.
know it while you have it.
you are marvelous
the gods wait to delight
The Laughing Heart by Charles Bukowski
City aint so prestine. SF 2013.
Today my heart is achey.
It aches for lives I cannot live. For people loved and lost, and those tumbling out of my hands, like sand slipping through the cracks of my grasp, my heart, my life.
It aches for an undetermined future. For a past I miss. For a present I don’t understand.
And all I can tell myself, over and over, as each heavy drop rolls down the length of my cheek, is that this is temporary, that I will be home soon, and the future will unfold, and I will remember the feel of my own skin, and there will be love and laughter and the instinctive grasping of tiny hands around my weather-worn fingers.