On Solitude

You should see me trying so hard to avoid you. I feel a cold draft coming into this piece, just you saying you want to be in every story I write. I feel a hard lie going from my mouth—That’s you easy, fishing for compliments though you are never harsh with me. I never want anything from you except a lie that’s hard to face. There, you keep your hand on my instances—a chest of fragrance—I frequent everywhere now but not once before when I was asleep apart from my waking.

*

Everyday I want to be conscious of your oppressive presence. Every meal, I want to be full of your cooking. The recipe firmly unrecognisable for its disrepute, its unrepeatable quality. Like something I’ve never had, or something I’ve never had quite this way, with this amount of interest, or lack of conscience—All delight, if you put it that way, but only dealing with it, if put another. Every place on the chair, a new old body. Every foresight, another spot of darkness. Every song, such intensity of breath—the singer noticing nothing of this. Admit it. Finally, you too are tired of it because you want to be. And I just want to be alone with your tiredness I could not take any other way.

*

Do you fancy yourself loved by me? Do you, lover of many and none? No, you are not, if I may be honest, if I may be bold. When I am not looking at you, I am dressed as a woman no longer waiting, for time does nothing to her. No, you are not time and it is not longer for your presence. I am glad without you. I do so many things—you should see me. So many that impact, of good consequence. I even think of the future, how I will be reached by someone close but does not need me. I will be finally free to ponder my life. Body to be unreached, touched; mind to be taught and reined in by any hope, little substance now, but no love.

*

Oh, do not make a fool of yourself! Stop this. Stay a poet, stay a doctor to me. Be not a foolish lover insistent with nonsense, persistent with sense. Have I nothing you don’t want? Think of my lack. Think about the things you hate about me: my seriousness, my culpability, my awful ignorance towards, my hunger for anything but you, my God whom you’ve made references to, my small body too frail now to be considered, my mouth, my mouth dry but without desire…Think deeply of your own richness—all the fun you will have without me. I am a hindrance to your restlessness. I am a rest war won’t hesitate to deny. Do that and you shall be loved. Loved with just love and no activity responsible but love.

*

Are you half-satisfied with my giving in to you? You’ve waited and waited with the patience of a healer. I have been the sophisticated one in my show of not asking. Lovers with chains around themselves fascinate me. You will think me mad and easily excited by madness. But you are the stubborn two by far. I am as brazen as the wind under your smart of wet rain. Now you must be going as I am never coming for you. You, the hunter; I, the never end of you.

*

His mouth shaped like an instance of regret wrapped within an incident. An elaborate mouth with a simple catch—not a trapping however way you see it—but an invitation much like a sight that touches yet warns you of your lack. You will be devoid of it soon, you think to yourself thinking on such a mouth. Then it happens or does not dare—He opens a little of your heart—and there’s no need, no desire for angle or failing, just the clean touch of perceiving him, how all of him, faces of him like quiet sustaining you.

*

No matter what I do, I cannot stop you from this action of always coming to me at the wrong time. When the mood doesn’t take me, you make it into an issue of disregard. What is regard anyway but looking without thinking, or thinking without seeing, but never both at the same time. I surmise yours is the first kind. Yes, physical without suggestion of merging. Perhaps even to separate me into an object willing to be an object—an arm happy to be used but not unhappy to be an arm.

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