Once we started, it was hard to stop.
Play peek-a-boo behind the windowblinds. Pushing fabric out of the way. Kissing each other hard and long. Each time, like a saying goodbye. We got used to going through the motions, the rest of the time. Tracing circles like epithets around each other's names. It frightened and worried me, the sense that it was me, that I'd brought this unholy, shameless desire into my life.
I became convinced that the things you haunt end up haunting you; that you invite into your life the sort of love like an obsession, like a bad spell, like an omen you want to have. I sought out compulsive desire, and let it find me head-on. Time to time, I came across names that smelled familiar. People shaking their heads, of course love shouldn't be an ordinary thing. Love, like the eruption of a volcano, shattering and remaking you.
You. Stripped. Down to the bones.
I thought, always, love shouldn't be ordinary and banal. Which was not to say that it should lack ordinary moments. Our love consisted of long, unremarkable periods, fragmented into arduous kisses kisses, interlaced with lazy ones. Backs pressed into cement and desks, giving everything up. Desirous of you, but all the unparalleled things that are not you, also.
What luck, to find someone to love, so that you can better give your love onto other things, also. The more intensely we knew one another, the more love became overflowing, also, into other things. Meeting marked the arrival of a serious, prolonged period of enchantment with the rest of the world.
Love, as a time of hope.
Finding a flower between two pages of Pratchett.
Squandering time inside the thoughts of an old, gravely man with a heart for classical music.
Picking more of myself each day, to pour back into the world, and delight others with my mind and my inexhaustible, inextinguishable desire for life.
Drawing from ourselves, this inexhaustible spring of energy and drive for all the things which, despite chance and circumstance, still remain beautiful in this life. An invitation, as it were, to open yourself to life. I thought, so often, this compulsion for fantasy would need be incompatible with the world, not that I've much option to curb my enchantment toward life, nor indeed cause to, now.
Desire. Revealing myself through an emptiness could never be this fulfilling, and I find, in you, more meat to wear on my bones, not a lessening, but a moreness. A rounding as I grow into those things sacred and relevant that have been, since always, inscribed into my life.
Prophetic, and wondrous, the way all of us have lived out our story. My steps leading into moreness, but into you, also. Asking. Moaning. Blessing.
Once we started, it was hard to stop. Our mouths hungry, starved,for holy water.
What could I say to you of all these latter days of comunion? I'm gone. Lost. Consummated, and devoured, inside this secret realm behind the end of thymes.