Cars’ headlights smear into a camera screen, turn calligraphy into bold characters into double lines and forms.
I now know why you do it.
They’re all in false counter-realities and one of them is the protagonist, sipping vast seas of alcohol as if they are morning coffee. Shadow deer and ballerinas and a bad posture forming a red X-ray on your back.
Actually being so happy you think you would die.
Beyond a stir of self-induced unconsciousness, words on pages blur into a beautiful haze, which makes you travel into the secret recessions of your body. In this one moment when all that is deliberately and accidentally wrong with the world ceases to exist, the love you want to forget rises like forbidden fruit. Enter God. Enter stolen lipstick. Enter a deformed face with no anchor whose soul tremors yours.
Goethe’s black widows hang in courtyards of slaughter houses. Intended circumferences become whole circles, deepening into necklines of forgotten traditions. Punishment is for discovered crime, so make mistakes but don’t confess in moments when you’re drunk enough to ask lawyers for justice on Sunday mornings, cup in hand.
You’re writing out the script of the second world war but even when all truths disappear and all realities become fiction, the thought of you lingers beyond all boundaries and dimensions. Everything else is gone and you’ve become everything. Perfect displacement. Perfect mapping of Columbus’ re-written routes.
Perhaps one day I will have the courage to send this to you, a letter you can touch without the stain of my perfume on it to tell you all I wanted was for you to tell me you owned me and then actually own me, Act upon the useless promises of love and become a sound alpha male. I have wanted you always, and will always want you and I will love you despite betraying you and getting consistently numb.
In green sliced disks, a soduku into your secret garden’s darkest lane.
I see your hospital breaks again and I know why you keep going back to it. I now know why your addictions always win. They will win despite all accidental babies so that the only future entry is an exit. We need an earthquake in North-East tail winds.
It’s a simple, stupid love and you can tell them all it’s the most honest lie you’ve ever lived and that nothing else in life makes you feel like this and that nothing ever will. Life may get better, but you don’t want better because this impossible present you have – that's all you need to get by on withering days. No one else who can make you shiver in joy and sorrow alike. You don’t need better because despite misusing and violently moulding her in the broad of your palm, building temples at her feet and stringing your fingers through her toes when she paints her nails, her clothes lying on top of your paintings in your attic, they make you wildly, uncontrollably happy. You can walk away whenever you want to protect me, you can put things on hold till it’s too late and people become nuclear-strayed ghosts of themselves. Then you will one day tell her you never did stop loving her.
If this isn’t love, I don’t know what is.