she was nine, he was on tv, she’s fifteen, he was already on his own, then twenty twenty one, he was old before his time, “where did you guys meet?”
I don’t know I don’t know walmart, maybe, at midnight, he ran out of pop tarts, but he said at a party in London, too much gaps in
what we’re saying. yes but I have no sense of time and space. I meant we. we’re just good that way. of forgetting. of forgiving again. it’s toxic, I know, this infatuation
don’t look. don’t look where we are. we are too old now. we are stale
from same old stories. “fame tore them apart,” …not true, not true!
he wakes up then decades sprawling across and in and out of his bedroom walls
she grows fonder of distance, she took a step one day and has been running eversince. “what an unstoppable force she is!” was. was.
he wants her to wait but never quite saying it right. she keeps running and she lets him watch how far how fast her steps could go how her jaw her fist clenched. she’s got no time to spare, “but she has no sense of time,” he was so young, “but he was old before his time.”
And then I felt sad because I realized that once people are broken in certain ways, they can’t ever be fixed, and this is something nobody ever tells you when you are young and it never fails to surprise you as you grow older as you see the people in your life break one by one. You wonder when your turn is going to be, or if it’s already happened.
Here I love you.
In the dark pines the wind disentangles itself.
The moon glows like phosphorous on the vagrant waters.
Days, all one kind, go chasing each other.
The snow unfurls in dancing figures.
A silver gull slips down from the west.
Sometimes a sail. High, high stars.
Oh the black cross of a ship.
Sometimes I get up early and even my soul is wet.
Far away the sea sounds and resounds.
This is a port.
Here I love you.
Here I love you and the horizon hides you in vain.
I love you still among these cold things.
Sometimes my kisses go on those heavy vessels
that cross the sea towards no arrival.
I see myself forgotten like those old anchors.
The piers sadden when the afternoon moors there.
My life grows tired, hungry to no purpose.
I love what I do not have. You are so far.
My loathing wrestles with the slow twilights.
But night comes and starts to sing to me.
The moon turns its clockwork dream.
The biggest stars look at me with your eyes.
And as I love you, the pines in the wind
want to sing your name with their leaves of wire.