In times like these, the weariness is passing into something like resignation, which I keep insisting is acceptance. And you, who know me or don’t know me or find here some circumstance that perhaps coincides with a moment or your lifetime, are not sure how either of us ended here. The plan falls flat like learning to juggle pancakes. Ramble bamble, roil and scramble. These awkward twinings of inside and out. Wander over my skin like vines on a statue in a place where vines can grow on statues. Perhaps all I need is a poem and a pen.veroxybd.com
If you were here (or I were there), I would tell you I love you. This profound wave of the unconditional that I can neither explain nor support. I love the fact of your existence and that love becomes a joyful tracing of movement. The way you lean a skateboard back and forth down the sidewalk. I love your mismatched clothes and the jerking movements of your imperfect limbs. I love your tired smile and your tired jokes and your tired isolation. I love you because you do not know I love you. And if I told you, instead of believing that perhaps I leave a trail of barely perceptible affection like the scent of twilight, you wouldn’t accept it. Or you would and I would forget how to offer. The way words forget what it means to love. The unknown with a whole heart.
She cannot admit that she misses him. It would perforate her larynx and puncture his inner ear. She is frustrated with the weight of phrases that should be light and uttered often. She wishes there were other words with the shape of this gap and the shade of this affection. Her tongue is ossifying with the unsaid.
You once asked me about all the things I should say. Everything I wanted to say but wouldn’t. Because the phrases meant nothing or something or anything. I’ll say one thing now: I loved the you that wasn’t really you. My larynx crumbled under the shift of your tectonic tongue.
I promised we were done. We were done. Except that I can’t get my skin back. You left a layer of ancient volcanic ash that wouldn’t scrape clean and can’t be excavated. So I keep dropping these postcards in the mailbox. Because it’s better than knowing who you are now.