Trespass

I don’t know why I was surprised to find you there. To see you newly satisfied in that place. Smiling, shining. Grown fat with your forgetting.

You took my favourite season, after-all. Rearranged the weather. Built your shelter on my foundation, sought safety on my seas. But now at least I know. What I have always suspected to be true:

You have no sacred in you.

(there is no temple of mine you will not defile)

Eidyia at body, remember

Eidyia. Who sees. Who knows.

 

 

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Give her that

“Speak the words you have swallowed. We have – – years of silence to fill. Let us crowd this night with all we have not said, let us cover every last second with our secrets. Whisper them soft and sure against my skin. Tell me goodbye, and tell me why.

Dust me for your fingerprints one last time, hold me up to the light, and see yourself all over. Know that you were here. Here we are. Grasp at what we will leave behind. What we are losing. There are ways for us to end this.

Love me just enough. Then let me go. Hold tight all through these midnight hours, then stand up, be brave. And watch. me. walk. away.”

My darling, there are ways for us to end this.

body, remember

Good god. She went so far as to tell you what to do. You have always done what you are told to do. How could you not even give her that …

It still surprised me

It isn’t that I think the sky will fall. Or that I wouldn’t know what to do if it did. I am not afraid of anything, you should understand that. But I don’t know that I have ever felt safe. Safe seems like a promise someone broke, and the worst part is that you believed them. With promises, it’s only a betrayal if you believed them.

I don’t believe I’ll ever be safe.

Do you know how aware we have to be? Girls like me? The man ahead who slows down, who disappears into doorways. The man behind who walks too fast, his encroachment felt on your skin, creeping. Vans with dark windows and streets with alley ways. A park at dusk, or just emptier of people than you thought it would be, any old time of the day. The teacher whose hand lingers, or the group of boys with beer on their breath. The door closing and the room spinning. Do you know how aware we have to be?

(I suppose I let my guard down. At the end. When the sky actually did fall. The crack, and the flash of light, and the wet like rain drops. Air heavy like a boot on my chest. Dirt, and metal and being pushed down, down into the earth. It still surprised me. The shock of how little you can mean to another. How an entire world can be discarded for someone else’s storm. I was right not to believe I’d ever be safe.

But it still surprised me. At the end.)

~ Alice, What We Have Left

Next Year … Some Year (this year)

Millay was right when she said they all have lied.

There hasn’t been any day, in any week, in any month – not a single day since then. I would take just one – a series of 24 successive hours where you don’t invade my heart thoughts.

A solid sleep, a quiet morning, an inconsequential afternoon. An evening where you cannot be tasted in the vodka and sadness that burns in my throat … and a night where you do not come to me, unbidden, when I first close my eyes.

I would take just one of these days from back, before.

There is absence and then there is this. The silent, suspended ever-presence. The way the saxophone mourns on my favourite song. The hundred little ways you won’t go away. They said there would come an easier time, the scientists and the lovers too. But it doesn’t heal a thing, you know.

I suspect it merely drives it deeper.

Rock Bublitz at body, remember

What I was writing five years ago. FIVE YEARS! Always interesting to sit down with my ghosts …

Untitled

What if. What if. What if.

Words like a heartbeat. Tapping in his chest, pulsing at his temple.

Can you ever be sure? He is sure. But.

What if. What if. What if.

Words like footsteps hitting pavement. Lift and fall, lift and fall.

He cannot, must not let the rhythm be a question.

To change somebody’s life, you have to first change your own.

Did he read that somewhere? Is it something he just knows? Perhaps he has always understood his destiny. What he was put down here for.

Not much longer, now. Either way.

There is something he must do.

NYC Walk

Playing, playing, playing. The idea for book #3 has been fizzing around since a stranger told me a magical story some bright night in Oslo. Let’s see what comes of this invitation.

What if. What if. What if.