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By Ali Date: 2007 Sep 13 Comment on this Work [[2007.09.13.08.42.23548]] |
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This morning, I wrote about love (just like the morning before that, and before that, and before-- you know what I mean). But everything I said was just bravado, some pretty foolish hope that would ring true if-- well, 'if' nothing... I can't manifest a promise with words made, unmade, tangled in hotel sheets in dreams that wore me out. This morning, I wrote about love and patience--the very things which cause us to risk or wait, that make us seize and shake, one small quake to begin, and then again, and then another. It was a meditation on distance, its allure and deception, the color of yesterday, white space on white space-- an indrawn breath, a word-touch, a subtle growl, desire swirling within this temporary breach, this politely dimming absence. This morning, I wrote about love, and I knew-- it means nothing to me without you. |