with clumsy hands I sculpted a replica of your misshapen heart, but the image made it too real. I remember you telling me (though out of context) that your heart was messed up (and I agreed) as each beat traveled through my arm. We did share a heartbeat at one point. It always beat too quickly for the slow tides, and took its time on the coldest summer night I’ve ever felt - but my God, I realized you were a life. Sort of like the time I focused so hard on my breathing that i was suddenly far too aware of my existence. We were breathing so vividly; I could’ve painted our breath in every color but orange, because I’ve never felt empty enough for that color. Always filled myself with a packing peanut romance and malnourished lips. Go ahead - starve your frustration, but beware of an unforgiving hunger. these walking paradoxes, these kick-start catastrophes. there are too many moons and not enough moon rocks, too little earth and so much life - too many hands but none of them want to hold.
my words.
"we seldom know what we're hearing when we hear something for the first time, but one thing is certain: we hear it as we will never hear it again. we return to the moment to experience it, I suppose, but we can never really find it, only its memory, the faintest imprint on what it really was, what it meant." - Colum McCann; Let the Great World Spin
• ask.
revolutions.
down the stairs on hands and knees
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