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@talkingofmichaelangelo
But it’s always winter in this world. There is no end to ending. The season of giving, the season when the bears are never cold, because they are sleeping. The bears are never cold, Mama, but I am one cold, cold bear.
— Brenda Shaughnessy, from “Magi”
This is a spring of shambles. Of meadows slow to flower, of fire sooting the underbrush, and, love, I am lonely as a bear. I am no good at bearish things.
Love, how do I gain what was lost in winter?
— Donika Kelly, from “Love Poem: Donika”
In Between Days | The Cure
Yesterday I got so old I felt like I could die Yesterday I got so old It made me want to cry
“I watch him in the kitchen, and I think of how much it hurts to love somebody. How deep the hurt is, how almost unbearable. It’s not the love that hurts; it’s the possibility of anything happening to the object of your love.”
— Augusten Burroughs, Magical Thinking
11:37 pm // 10.20.25
I had a dream about you last night and it was one of the realest dreams I’ve ever had. Maybe it was a nightmare? A day later and my chest still hurts, tight and hollow and aching and sad.
I found out you had a child with someone else. We were talking and a little girl ran up to you, called you “daddy,” and you picked her up but cringed at it—looking to me apologetically, embarrassed, sorry. I’ve been having trouble putting it into words. I was obviously upset, and you felt bad. Because it was like a permanent end, the final word: we would never be together. And we kept walking together. Me, holding back tears (not so well), absolutely devastated, and you, following after me closely, trying to explain. That you loved me, were in love with me the way I loved you, but this kid had happened, an accident, so you were stuck. You didn’t want me to find out that way, that sort of thing.
Later I was playing with the kid and you watched us, crying. Sad and happy. Happy to see us getting along, two girls you loved; sad because it somehow meant we could never be together. And someone said something about us two girls being sisters—I don’t know if it was me, taking a dig at you, or you, trying to pretend this was okay, or just some voice in the dream.
I’ve always gotten a little tangled up in the whole daughter-or-lover thing. “Tangled up” might be the wrong phrase, because it’s never felt restricting. I’m not repulsed by it. I saw you as a father figure and I desire(d) you so strongly and those wires never felt uncomfortable crossing. That’s impossible to explain to anyone, though. I don’t remember the ones before you, if you were the first, but you definitely weren’t the last man I looked to for paternal and romantic or sexual affection.
A lot to unpack there. My possessiveness. I’ve rarely known a feeling as immovable and intense as my jealousy concerning you—it makes me sick to my stomach. Still, evidently, I can’t handle the thought of anyone else having you. I’m selfishly fortunate that things have turned out the way they have, so far at least, huh? The idea of another woman having your child, it horrifies me, honestly. I would be as devastated as I was in the dream—even in front of you, I wouldn’t be able to pretend to be happy. I know I’d cry my eyes out. It would be a betrayal.
In the dream you were as considerate and accommodating as I’ve always known you in real life. The biggest difference is that apparently you were in love with me, which adds something extra. Something sort of star-crossed and painful and pathetic.
Betrayal, yeah, that word explains a lot of how I felt.
How strange. I’ve been thinking of you more often lately, but now that only means a few times a month. I go weeks without thinking of you sometimes. But today, today really knocked me on my ass. I thought of you and cried all day long. Really cried. I’m not as over it as I thought. I read some old entries on this blog. I’m glad I didn’t delete it as I sometimes considered.
It’s exhausting to remember you. It’s terrifying, too, remembering the lives we had alongside one another. Feels like a different world, and I guess it was. I have such a terrible memory—it’s hard to believe that was me, and that was you. I can’t believe we used to see each other almost every day. A long time ago I wrote that I didn’t take that fleeting honor for granted. I hope I didn’t. It would be nice to see you again now.
Ocean Vuong, On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous
“I composed a beautiful letter to you in the sleepless nightmare hours of the night, and it has all gone: I just miss you, in a quite simple desperate human way.”
— Vita Sackville-West, in a letter to Virginia Woolf (1926)
“there is […] a last even of last times of saying if you do not love me I shall not be loved if I do not love you I shall not love”
— Samuel Beckett, “Cascando”
Love begins with a look: we gaze at the person to whom we are attracted, and he or she gazes back. What do we see? Everything and nothing. After a moment we avert our eyes. Otherwise we would be turned to stone.
The Double Flame: Love, Sex and Eroticism by Octavio Paz
for you, literally anything
I can't explain the state that I'm in The state of my heart – he was my best friend
the predatory wasp of the palisades is out to get us! // sufjan stevens (ig: jayetart)
Lou Reed // Coney Island Baby
And the glory of love, glory of love Glory of love just might come through
“it’s the red hair in his beard that i touch when we’re sitting on a hill on a sunny november day and it’s the feeling of running my fingers through the curls behind his ear and it’s the spray of hair peeking above his collar that flutter my heart and it’s his narrow hips and it’s the tight skin across his ribs and it’s the pull of denim across his knees that make my mind a renegade and it’s his fingers tapping the pendant under my shirt as his cheek rests on my chest and it’s the feeling of my lips on the tip of his nose and it’s his leg thrown lazily across mine that make my breath come fast”
— chicken. / ala.
Kenneth Rexroth, from Sacramental Acts: Love Poems; When we with Sappho
Maurice (1987) dir. James Ivory
