i just i just
wanted
(to know)
you to know
that well well
i never
(you know)
take the easy
make the easy
just (know)
it wasn't.
may 26, 2010
2 comments:
Anonymous
said...
8 years ago I shared a playlist on here. Listened to it a hundred times myself. Did you ever see it?
I've written numerous unsent letters. In different ways, they all say the same things: I'm sorry. I forgive you. Thank you. I love you.
I often wonder silly things. Like, whether you identify as bi? Like, whether there were possible sexual experiences I never knew of? Like, whether you have any regrets? Like, how often you think of me, even now. Like, whether I sometimes interrupt your dreams like you do mine?
I never understood your poetry. That something could be felt and not read, as though, it were a feeling and not words. It was a mystery to me. Still is. But I love the little bits of poetry I do understand. The pull towards slowness, precision, the sacredness of life.
I sip my wine, recognize my impaired, less filtered impairments, and consider whether sharing this is a form of infidelity. I hope not. Or, is the mere thought a wrong. Certainly not. But sharing it might be.
Happy 41st, a few weeks late. Every year since, I've thought about sending a gift and decided otherwise.
The heart is a weird, unknowable thing. Someday I'll be through of you. Maybe.
You murdered our life together. Stabbed in the belly with a knife. As you walked away, and I lay there bleeding, slowed I realized it was a gift.
Thank you for having the courage to do what needed doing. We both know I lacked it. Still do.
Few sentences pack so much, at least for me. I wish you well.
2 comments:
8 years ago I shared a playlist on here.
Listened to it a hundred times myself.
Did you ever see it?
I've written numerous unsent letters.
In different ways, they all say the same things:
I'm sorry.
I forgive you.
Thank you.
I love you.
I often wonder silly things.
Like, whether you identify as bi?
Like, whether there were possible sexual experiences I never knew of?
Like, whether you have any regrets?
Like, how often you think of me, even now.
Like, whether I sometimes interrupt your dreams like you do mine?
I never understood your poetry.
That something could be felt and not read, as though, it were a feeling and not words.
It was a mystery to me.
Still is.
But I love the little bits of poetry I do understand.
The pull towards slowness,
precision,
the sacredness of life.
I sip my wine,
recognize my impaired, less filtered impairments,
and consider whether sharing this is a form of infidelity.
I hope not.
Or, is the mere thought a wrong.
Certainly not.
But sharing it might be.
Happy 41st, a few weeks late.
Every year since,
I've thought about sending a gift
and decided otherwise.
The heart is a weird, unknowable thing.
Someday I'll be through of you.
Maybe.
You murdered our life together.
Stabbed in the belly with a knife.
As you walked away,
and I lay there bleeding,
slowed I realized
it was a gift.
Thank you for having the courage to do what needed doing.
We both know I lacked it.
Still do.
Few sentences pack so much, at least for me.
I wish you well.
Sheesh, already I regret that. Please ignore.
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