i. she’s on her world tour, and you are her court jester juggling, and singing, and pulling flowers out of your sleeves. every city is a different version of her; so, you memorize her meteoric rises. you watch her from across crowded rooms, the backseat of a moving car, through morning coffee steam and warm guffaws. you become fluent in the small gestures that mean stay and the pauses that mean not now.
ii. there are moments, of course, where you are both people again. she doesn't quite know what to make of you, your philosophy. she doesn't know what you mean when you say "i love you like delueze loved guattari," or that, when you say anything, what you mean is: what is yours is mine too. you see her then not as the universe, but as the trembling thing inside it. you ruminate on it long enough that you stop questioning it. when you love someone, you think, you master the art of orbiting someone who seems to contain multitudes beyond your comprehension.
iii. this is it, then. every line you have written about her, all of your poor attempts at redefining her in terms of metaphor, is the meaning of it all. love, to you, is poetry: the nucleus at the center of all things.
In a shadow there is the blessing of a shadow. — Kuki Shūzō
scratch the air in desperation, one last sharp intake of breath. there's nails in your back, claw marks reaching, reaching, and stretching, and writhing forever like your untied shoelaces.
there is nothing you can do to fix this. i'm dull like blood on concrete.
she says, "one day, you will hate me. you will hate me more than anything." and i say, "yes." i feel as though i have been there: my hands in her hair, my hands sticky with bile, my hands on her waist.
the dog in my head whimpers; there is nothing you can do to fix this.
Spoiler
written yesterday, too busy to post
In a shadow there is the blessing of a shadow. — Kuki Shūzō
