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We will keep wanting this. How difficult it is to rid yourself of this delusionist fantasy of lying down next to someone who knows your shame and loves you for it. Your shames also lay together in a field somewhere. For now you have the whole day. They make you laugh across the table just for the sound of it. You say, hey, look at that, and they look. Later, you watch a movie one of you loved as a child. It doesn't matter which; two children, going home, your pink room, warm, their body, the night, in sleep their mind so open it says okay: I'm going now. I'm going. It's not far. I'll see you tomorrow.
As far as I know, it doesn’t start with anarchic hope splashed in bright colors across filthy brick, or with the desperate recurrent condition of inducing forgetting. It doesn’t even start with a well timed death. I think it starts somewhere smaller. In the tension that builds between bones. Tooth grinding off small glints of more tooth, the quiet overworking of the heart.
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