I revisit in times of instability. How funny is that? You, inexplicably expelled of stability, be a comfort in tumultuous transitions. I’ve wanted to write of you, of the pieces you pulled out of me, of the way you shifted my perspective on life, but perhaps fear has been my yielding factor. But that’s too ambiguous, too enigmatic for a feeling that was so specific. So fucking specific that it created its own tunnels, systems, equipped with mappings within my mind. So specific that when the evidence of it all was burnt into indecipherable ashes tucked quietly into the floorboards of subconscious, I was left dumbfounded with no concept direction to guide myself in. I’m still trying to harness a compass within myself, slip on rain boots and trudge along to more desirable destinations. It’s not quite blatant fear that has discouraged me from writing, but perhaps that writing of you fossilizes you; more specifically, the you that is a metaphysical figure existing both in past but also present. I would feel archaic to still be dwindling my emotional capacities over someone not even present. But is this not synonymous to the human experience? Constant upheavals of past matters in hopes they’ll provide knowledge for current matters. And this stands true: you have opened my eyes to a vastness inside me as well as the world that surrounds me. But you’re a past matter I revisit in the garden for guidance while toying with the orchids and tulips, or whatever may be in season. I want to dig you up, roots and all and make further attempts at consolation. I wish for the dissection of the silly relations that surrounded us, of the ambiguous and enigmatic subjects that existed in discussions it seemed only you and Is teeth could sink into. But I am more than aware of how childish this desire of mine is; matters are laid to rest and there is nothing more that can be done once the shovel is pushed into the mound. Are these appraisals birthed from the womb of love? Or factual conclusions caught in the downstream of rainfall?
I cannot deny the terrifying nature of meeting someone who seemed to already have mapped out intricacies of my mind without any prior knowledge. Articulate and speak of every convoluted thought my brain tried to wrap itself around like children clinging to tree branches for support in the fantastical world they have discovered. It terrified me but didn’t deter, it was fear adorned with intrigue; and I wanted to see the light at the end of the tunnel, witness the last grain hitting the bottom of the hourglass, and lick the last drop. I wanted to turn it inside out and back again just to make sure I understood it clearly enough. But I didn’t. The sun hung too low, I fulfilled my own Icarus prophecy with burns up my thighs as proof of foolishness. I lost track and count because every beautiful memory of mine led me back to you with a breadcrumb trail. Every display of tremendous beauty I laid my eyes upon was merely a double edged sword piercing me, reflecting you in the sheath.
Despite tremendous efforts to not, I cultivated a part of myself around your presence. Perhaps it was an amalgamation of scrap fragments discarded on the floor of my consciousness that your hands of creation saw aspirations within: a rag doll sewn together by a thread of emotionality. But now I'm mourning its monumental tumble back into oblivion and lack of purpose, a consequential unraveling and ripping of seams. The skeletal configure remains, I count them down my spine to my ankles and back again. A junkyard embellished by childhood toys tossed astray and decapitated, cracked mirrors promising precise amounts of bad luck, steering wheels lovers once pressed up against. I think that’s where grievance is crowned highest: the parts of me you sculpted into magnificence are not gone, in fact they are so close, securely tucked in a box on my highest shelf. But the contents feel devoid of practicality without your insight and unique grasp. And how can I be surprised? Someone suited with such boundless creative abilities would of course mold these matters into something decipherable, something pungent with intellect, adorned with acumen.
I’m painfully aware that I am capable of this all with my own two hands; I too am more than capable to muster purpose and utilization but that seems abysmal in comparison. We are all painfully familiarized with the knowledge that anything will appear inadequate when in comparison to love; desire is dwindling and I am terrified of losing grasp upon already slippery facets guarding entrances to alluring doors. Loneliness is plaguing with a waltz of exhaustion, the compass seems out of arm's reach. I am grappling with linguistics for a presentation of love and subsequent loss; of the erasure of one from one’s mind with failed attempts to extrapolate only the digestible memories that slip down the tongue easily. I’ll think of you always and fondly with love. And of course thought.