I think your face is beautiful, the way it is close to my face, and I think you are the real October with your transparence and the stone of your words as they pass, as I do not hear them. -- Bill Berkson, October October again and again it's full of you. Can you feel this small sadness as it climbs inside and undresses you. How an orchestra of hands can promise to be noteless. Outside everything is beautiful and dying. Can you feel this yawning mouth that only wants and wants. The intimacy of small talk without the immutability of its damage. Is it possible to fall back asleep in your contours without subverting your heart into a hallway. I know I didn't get it right the first time. Can you feel that. Inside me something insatiable comes to life. It reaches up my throat with its claws. Wants to be petted and fed cold milk. Wants to show up on your doorstep. But aren't I an expert on restraint. Again and again. I practice small refusals. I do not touch. I throw out the milk. I try to unremember the sound of you laughing. The way your face looked sad but honest in some moonlight. The way time continues to elapse patiently. A heart that beats slowly and sadly still beats. Still ventures to unremember. What could you have stored up to tell me anyway. After all this time. What would you say to me if you were not afraid.
Only the atrophied animal sleeping at your ankles. No need to chain me to the bedpost. Every seduction needs only the smallest of aches. Every concession: my shoulder tapping your shoulder. My teeth tapping your teeth. Call me your error. Call me your stray. Know that I am more than my heartache. More than my strangeness, more than my arms tied up together. You can't fix something broken with something else that's broken. Empty bucket. Spineless bird. Although you now know me like a nightmare and undress me with your moonlit mouth, I know it's not enough. Sometimes everything works out. But no. It doesn't. Please don't do that thing anymore. Please forgive me. For this and for everything else that's coming. And believe I never meant to let you tunnel into me like that. The way love twists into a heart, mercilessly. And keeps twisting. I believed you when you said you would not be gentle. I just thought there was nothing left unbruised when we met. Only my threadbare heart crawling with larva, brimming with ghosts. I thought I could take it. But then we got quiet. Eventually, I opened my mouth. Call me your downpour. Call me your death. That night, I know I dragged you through the gutter of this. How could you refuse me once you'd turned me over. Once you made me your sorrow, your specter. Your spiral staircase. Your cistern full of pond water. When you said do this and I wanted to. I would live here for another year just to feel like that again. A sharp grip around my wrists. Cool breath like bee wings up my spine. But now all I feel is the vacuum of your egress. Believe me I have enough grief to flood the basement. And enough regret to burn the house down. Tell me, what could stay upright in the aftershocks of this. Even my doorframe is now a skewed and haunted thing. So everything broken keeps breaking. And we can't take the bones out of our bodies. I can't unsay that I loved you. Now that you're gone, the moon follows me home. Call me your aimless. Call me forgotten. Call me your fuckup, your weakness, your garbage. Your favorite aberration. Tell me I'm nothing. You refuse to dismantle this, so I will. If it's harder to unlove a thing why didn't you just leave me there that night on the porch to whimper and crawl up the steps alone.
. will i always digress? i think so impossible not to as i am a wistful type and forgetful i only wanted to watch you. .. first love always begins with this sincerity, perhaps because its earnestness curtails my other desire to possess. what is the point of so much silence? let's talk about something else: let's reimagine a story where we both say the right thing at the right time i've seen you do it before i swear, it is a sure thing stop turning around try to believe me ... can i have some more? it's so good. for once i don't feel so empty less is a lexeme that keeps coming back over and over it is the perfect example of something regretful: i know what i did to get us where we are now. look, i don't feel good about it i was bored stiff. that's why i was so distant and agitated; why i looked so small. it's why i noticed someone else across the room, just the kind of guy i like. don't be jealous. i liked you that way, too you know it anyway, that you're really cute? are you blushing? you are too. so then who is in charge here? not you. you seem out of it tonight, you look like you had a bad day those wet lashes sorry i didn't think that you would ever get so hooked, that you would make so much of things but tell me you wouldn't have done exactly the same if you were me tell me .... "you're not sad out of the blue. there have to be reasons." there's a reason. "come on." i'm coming. "stop torturing yourself." it's over. all settled. i'm sorry. i swear i am. ..... i'll finish my drink first, then i'll come. i'll watch first, then i'll come. promise. so i followed you out of the bar. i followed you into a bar. i followed a crocodilian instinct i had about you. why are you here all alone? being good. your type is so rare, that's why i followed you. i followed you because you have a pretty name, in latin it means hammer i could be so serious back then only cared about art and language i didn't know much, but i liked it. all of it especially egon schiele, picasso and schiele. i'm lousy at english, so i linger on the art and only watch movies with subtitles. in fact, i love english actually. oh i can't remember. anderson, scorsese, aronovsky, i could go on but i'll try not to. am i even allowed to be here? i wont talk more than five minutes. i'll just get that dead look in my face. doesn't it make you happy? i so rarely do anyone else's portrait. "the mysterious weakness of men's faces" and that sort of thing. instead i have obsessed myself with richter. it does me good. the rigorousness of his brush strokes, those wide commitments. ...... how does that look? it's strange because it's you and it isn't you. i have to go. you don't have to like it. someone wolf-whistled on my walk home. ....... i always prefer to be clear. but don't tell me to relax. you just jumped down my throat do you realize? when you mentioned a pathological scruple and what is that? does that mean gravity? like how everything in nature is perverted, and vice versa. the opposite of right-mindedness. "are you following any of this?" i can follow this, i am living this. i'm alive and i will do anything really its scary "so you're voracious?" you can't even imagine. "i can see." can you see me clearly, i don't want to know. it's nice being here. a little too nice. that smile. i admit i was shaking i was tired but i didn't give up i told my bones to go i went big words. to love. delicious. ........ i am still studying the anguish in schiele's oeuvre. those delicate nudes, emaciated and grotesque, gaping in such unlikely positions. twisted, obscure, something very dark. i've tried to keep that out of your portrait but it never works. better not to tell it slant, actually better to embrace one's own disfigurements with an emotional directness that makes others want to look away pleasure being so obvious, and so obviously tangential to torture is it ever possible for pleasure to be shared? unlike pain, it is not a competition even my portraits are really self-portraits it is part of my wistfulness
I have a bad feeling about all of this. I have a question with a devastating hypothetical inside of it. I once had a long list of questions for you, but I answered them myself. I am the one you are losing, remember? I am not a very good person, but I keep saying I am trying. I want to be let in, I said looking at your diaphragm. I used to imagine: [ ] I am making an artform of my own heartache as an enviable talent. I am starting to adore my own unlikely need. I am making something millable out of this, I am. I could mill a life so full, there's no room for you anymore. I am milling around in the quiet space you left, feeling fragile. I am starting to like it. I used to be yours; now I am mine. My dear, my darling, my dark cloud. I have no rules or secrets anymore. I am sure you know by now: you cannot possess a thunderstorm or bring one back from the dead. I was your first full stop, wasn't I? Wasn't I? I don't know anything for sure anymore. I don't want to haunt you anymore. I never said I would keep searching until I found you. I don't tell you what I'm thinking anymore. I keep ripping pages out of my notebook. I am not eating all my meals anymore. I never said I would. Okay, I did. I am making small but meaningful improvements. I am starting not to love you anymore. I still think of how beautiful you are, how your face fits your face. Fits the palms of my hands. I don't tell you everything I am thinking anymore. I am not a nostalgic person. I try to focus on the things I dislike about you. I love you less and less. I am erasing you, slowly. I used to miss you all the time. I used to want to talk to you even when I was talking to you. I finally realized it was the compass that was broken, it just took a long time. I finally realized the map wasn't even right, and anyway I can't read maps. I touch my own sweet and nervous spine now. I will still be the death of you. I would do it all again, but I wish I wouldn't. I don't feel like a ghost. I am not a ghost. I know you'll be okay without me, but not the same. I am learning to forget as a self-defense mechanism. I tore your pages out of my diary and stopped writing your name. "Write down everything and of course you'll remember things you wish you didn't," I read somewhere. Even if you never read this, you'll still feel it. I suspect you will grow to miss me terribly. When it's over (and it's almost over, I promise) just know I meant everything I ever said to you, even if I wish I didn't. I am taking nothing back, even if I wish I could. I would do it all again, even if I wish I wouldn't.
Even if you never read this, you'll still feel it. I am erasing you, slowly. I am learning to forget as a self-defense mechanism. I am making an artform of my own heartache as an enviable talent. I am making small but meaningful improvements. I am making something millable out of this, I am. I am milling around in the quiet space you left, feeling fragile and raw. I am not a nostalgic person. I am not a very good person. I am not eating all my meals anymore. I am starting not to love you anymore. I am starting to adore my own unlikely need. I am starting to like it. I am sure you know by now: I am taking nothing back, even if I am the one you are losing, remember? I can't read maps. I could mill a life so full, there's no room for you anymore. I don't feel like a ghost. I am not a ghost. I don't know anything for sure anymore. I don't tell you everything I am thinking anymore. I don't tell you what I'm thinking anymore. I don't want to haunt you anymore. I finally realized it was the compass that was broken. I finally realized the map wasn't even right, and anyway I have a bad feeling about all of this. I have a question with a devastating hypothetical inside of it. I have no rules or secrets anymore. I keep ripping pages out of my notebook. I keep saying I am trying. I know you'll be okay without me, but not the same. I love you less and less. I meant everything I ever said to you, even if I never said I would keep searching until I found you. I never said I would. I once had a long list of questions for you, but I answered them myself. I still think of how beautiful you are, how I suspect you will grow to miss me terribly. I tore your pages out of my diary and stopped writing your name. I touch my own sweet and nervous spine now. I try to focus on the things I dislike about you. I used to be yours; now I am mine. I used to imagine: [ ] I used to miss you all the time. I used to want to talk to you even when I was talking to you. I want to be let in, I said looking at your diaphragm. I was your first full stop, wasn't I? Wasn't I? I will still be the death of you. I wish I could. I wish I didn't. I wish I wouldn't. I would do it all again, but I wish I wouldn't. I would do it all again, even if it just took a long time. My dear, my darling, my dark cloud. Okay, I did. "Write down everything and of course you'll remember things" When it's over (and it's almost over, I promise) just know you cannot possess a thunderstorm or bring one back from the dead. "You wish you didn't," I read somewhere. Your face fits your face. Fits the palms of my hands.
over and over you cipher and decipher me again again and hack me into 1s and 0s you hack me into pieces in addition to my heart take my lungs and all my teeth, lumbar, larynx, Jarvik 7 twist my screws out one by one by one by one it's been hard for me to care much lately, nothing really hurts except TypeError: print "I really am sorry." config==source(avoldprogram) loop loop loop it doesn't even hurt keep hacking
We did the very things we never imagined we would do. And it's too late now, I've had a long look at you. Suddenly it felt as if I'd never had any other life at all: I woke up wearing a black crêpe dress, sangria lipstick, and a tooth-crunching headache, dark and sharp. But I remained a masterpiece of composure didn't I? Nothing ever ruffles you, you noticed and also how I was not beautiful, but self-mastery can have the same magnetic pull as beauty, can be so powerful that molecules and people realign themselves in a room. The days that followed were a blur. There were times I couldn't even hear my own voice; it was hollow and infinitely far away. I didn't eat for two days. The doorbell rang and rang. I was busy reliving the moment where you and I ran up the library steps. Your navy shoes, the rain flecking our faces. I fell in love exactly how you'd arranged it. With my connivance, sure. But still. It was refreshing to find someone interested in me apart from my achievements or misfortunes, not always prying for more or trying to pick my life apart like a fish split in two and splayed open— those messy pin bones everywhere. You sat me down and told me the truth. Even if you don't like Poe, he invented the detective story. That was a long time ago. There was the evening you stopped me in the doorway to pick a thread off my sweater. Days later, I sat up suddenly in bed at the sound of your voice speaking clearly in my head. Come here. When I knocked, the door had opened quicker than I'd expected; I was staring out at the street thinking of something else. You stopped me in the doorway to pick a thread off my sweater. And how spectacular to be reflected in your eyes. I couldn't understand what you were saying, I was too busy turning your words over in my mouth, those delicious syllables. I heard you say: come here Then the amber-colored everything, like the afterglow of a dream. Your Cézannes and owls and playing cards, the closeness of your face in the dark. There was a certain disorientation of being the wrong girl, with the wrong man, in the wrong apartment. But what can you do when someone implores you: come here and reaches for your hip. And their eyes can see inside of you. And they know you've got the blues. What song is this? I asked to have something to say. My loyalties were all over the place. My hands, everywhere. And even then, despite everything, it still came as a shock to me. The next day, you used the words think and love as I moved my breakfast around the plate. Do you even know what love is? What it looks like? What it tastes like? How it shimmers for a second before it turns to ash and moves right through you like a ghost in the room. How it tastes like two takeout boxes, the clinking of glass, another red mouth full of teeth. Weeks can go by like that, and it gets harder and harder not to be hungry. You said I hate to keep harping on this, but you really must eat something. Yes, I know. My parents said Intelligence isn't everything, Julia. Yes, I know. Yes, I know. I like fried eggs! I like jam and toast! I can eat four slices! I can eat the whole loaf! I was speaking in a very loud voice, everyone pretending not to hear. Really, my wolfish ego eats everything in sight, devouring affection and paperbacks, demanding loyalty and silence and caffeine. But the body is weak, can be turned to off like a lamp. That's what I did. Meaning: the sculpture will emerge, but only when we stand still and are patient. Look at me, I'm talking to you. I could see inside you, too: all that art and math and regret adding up, mixed together, slowly frothing over. That's why you could sense my loneliness. Black tea, that's the ticket, you knew. No sugar but a heavy splash of cream. You told me things would get better, and they did. Anyway, that was a long time ago. It's been a while now. This Sunday morning, I woke up late and climbed from a heavy, complicated dream. Nothing left but a ringing in my ears. Someone who looked like you put ground glass in my food because I had no discipline. I am telling you this dream for a reason. Because heartbreak is my great secret, too. Don't you know— almost everybody's got one. Don't you know that I never stopped loving you so much it ached inside of me and almost felt like a sadness but a certain heaviness can take over, eventually it prompts a gentle goodbye at the gate, a parting glimpse, our fingers tangled then no longer touching. There is a death haiku for this, accompanied by a gorgeous piano elegy. It doesn't really have a name. Anyway, that was a long time ago. All I am trying to say is Hello, old love. I am still waiting for you. You've always been a planet without an atmosphere. What I mean is that you're smart. People like you. They tie themselves in knots for you. I did. A long time ago. Although it was unlike me, I itched to reach for your hand and when we were alone, I took it. Remember? How sensational to be holding your hand, to wake up next to you in the morning. You took me to the mountains. Taught me the difference between ebonized wood and true ebony. Swept the hair off my face, gently. By September, everyone noticed my appetite had improved. You'd be surprised what small, everyday things can lift us out of despair.