we held gold dust in our hands

“When my beloved calls my name— in the bathtub, in her bed, over the telephone, into a microphone or my ear— it closes my eyes, buckles me, thralls my insides with the sweet terror of being recognized. Sometimes, we cannot bear the thing we crave.”

“To love another is something / like prayer and can’t be planned, you just fall / into its arms because your belief undoes your disbelief.”

Do you understand? When I am done telling you these stories, when you’re done listening to these stories, I am no longer I, and you are no longer you. In this afternoon we briefly merged into one. After this, you will always carry a bit of me, and I will always carry a bit of you, even if we both forget this conversation.

Don't give up, you're falling into a new kind of love

Do you understand? When I am done telling you these stories, when you’re done listening to these stories, I am no longer I, and you are no longer you. In this afternoon we briefly merged into one. After this, you will always carry a bit of me, and I will always carry a bit of you, even if we both forget this conversation.

“When my beloved calls my name— in the bathtub, in her bed, over the telephone, into a microphone or my ear— it closes my eyes, buckles me, thralls my insides with the sweet terror of being recognized. Sometimes, we cannot bear the thing we crave.”

“C'est une souffrance étrange. (…) Mourir de nostalgie pour quelque chose que tu ne vivras jamais.”

“These mountains that you are carrying, you were only supposed to climb.”

“Chyba to sprawił wrzesień, że prawie nic już nie czuję. Słucham, jak teraz upał zamiera, ciszą pulsuje. Pewno ci dobrze gdzieś o tej porze, pewnie przyjemnie. A wokolutko – pejzaż bez smutku – pejzaż beze mnie. Noce i dni o których nie wiesz, jesień i pejzaż bez Ciebie.”

“You have to meet people where they are, and sometimes you have to leave them there.”

“I will love you until the we run out of mornings. Then I will love you in the dark.”

“It’s summer now, and you’re craving a simpler existence. You want to read. You want to write. You want to meet strangers for dinner, and not refuse another drink at another bar. You want to dance. You want to find yourself in a basement, neck loose, bobbing your head as a group of musicians play, not because they should, but because they must. It’s summer now, and you’re looking forward to worrying less. You’re looking forward to longer nights and shorter days. You’re looking forward to gathering in back gardens and watching meat sputter on an open barbecue. You’re looking forward to laughing so hard your chest hurts and you feel light-headed. You’re looking forward to the safety in pleasure. You’re looking forward to forgetting, albeit briefly, the existential dread which plagues you, which tightens your chest, which pains your left side. You’re looking forward to forgetting that, leaving the house, you might not return intact. You’re looking forward to freedom, even if it is short, even if it might not last. You’re looking forward.”