whims of being

You are closed and shuttered to me now, a room without doors or windows, and I cannot enter. But I fell in love with you under the open sky and death cannot change that.

I ache, I never stop aching. Look at me. I wish I could step into your eyes. I wish you would close your eyes.

This morning there’s snow everywhere. We remark on it. You tell me you didn’t sleep well. I say I didn’t either. You had a terrible night. “Me too.” We’re extraordinarily calm and tender with each other as if sensing the other’s rickety state of mind. As if we knew what the other was feeling. We don’t, of course. We never do. No matter. It’s the tenderness I care about. That’s the gift this morning that moves and holds me. Same as every morning.

So when you ask me why I cannot love you more calmly, I answer that to love you calmly is not to love you at all.

You can’t ever be really free if you admire somebody too much.

All these syllables and all I think of is you. You are truth to me.

sometimes the things we love, will kill us, but weren’t we dying anyway? i forgive you for being something that will eventually die. perishable goods, fading out slowly, little human, i wouldn’t want to be in a world where you don’t exist.

do people actually read books while in the bathtub