We sometimes speak the truth for absence of the capacity to do otherwise.
Intending neither to hurt nor to inflame, only to purge oneself of what one must say, the impetus being not desire but something even more archaic.
Namely, the ground of the ontological itself: BEING, that which finds its expressive possibilities in only two ways:
There is the acceptance of existence in full, which is nothing other than LIFE replete with the actuality of LIVING.
Otherwise, there is the discourse of DEATH. (Only most either refuse or are unable to translate its message.)
If we are never to meet in this life again, allow me what is only right, which is that I experience the lack of it.
For at the first glance of your eyes, I gave myself over with a passion unrivaled.
Who were you that I lived with, celebrated with, slept with, with whom I wrote and puzzled life, laughed & cried with for such a span, so short in its eternity?
Was it all just a dream,
An elaborate ruse of my potent imagination so intractably construed as to be shared from the azure of my eyes with the multiple hues of others?
Do you appear differently to one with green windows, as verdant & intense as yours when you communicated the depths of your soul to me?
You remain, you know: cannot help but to do so.
You are in the scent of patchouli, the softness of every woman’s lips, the intensity of experience long held in abeyance.
There you appear, unwilled & uninvited, which is not to say that you have intruded, that I would willfully refuse you admission were you to ask for it.
These are simple facts I state; this is just how it is, the times when I most urgently feel your revenant, the ghost of all that was, the sheer beauty of your abiding in me, yet.
Thus you live, & thus you shall continue.
There is no more point in fighting the remainder of our division than there was in doing battle with the explosive force of our initial coming together as one.
Ironically, it ends just as it began: IT IS.
There being no more use in struggling with what in this way IS, than there would be in tipping at windmills
My tears having long since rejoined the elemental, I find myself standing here, dimly yellow & scorching red Fall leafs in my hand, knowing IT IS, and so it shall remain.