Of course, what I am familiar with
is the striving for the thing I cannot grasp
Extending my body fully, extending into the sky, my fingers
Curved like a bow,
The pictures he sent, of Iceland.
Enchanting and glistening like oil paint,
teasing me with their size and their monochrome.
I wanted
I want to capture them
These GRAND landscapes
(lance-capes)
volcanic vistas and waters,
roads, unending on a small large island
I love that I could try to paint them 500 times
and never get them right.
But even the failures could be beautiful.
And so it is with you,
I have tried 500 times with you,
(more maybe, and there will be more in the future)
500 hellos.
500 gestures, countless, even.
And today our eyes met.
I MISS you.
I was carrying 3 bags and 2 dogs
were trying to trip me.
I walked through OUR courtyard
and you were in your kitchen.
Our eyes met through the gauzy curtain you have.
Did you hate me then?
Did you recognize me?
I would allow myself sadness, or torture,
but it is a dull ache now.
I knew from the beginning that I could never paint Iceland.
And I always knew that we would not have a normal friendship.
That you were not someone I could invite over for Doritos, or I could come over for coffee,
But even the mistakes and failures are beautiful.
I ache for the days of sitting in the car with you
and even, stumbling words, I could make you laugh.
Seeing a carefree smile on your face is like
seeing a picture of a mountain against the clear cold blue sky
and feeling the wind, from a photograph.
I can keep you on a wall, on a shelf,
frozen, hibernation, music held on pause.
But I saw you,
and I know you saw me.
Is this the Bipolar part?
The depressed, scared part that regrets opening up to me during a manic episode?
I know you prefer to keep yourself hidden.
You opened up to me and I saw a treasure.
But now you keep yourself buried.
Send me away if you hate me.
Or send me a message if you can, smuggle it out to me.
As I know you have.
(Here I know I should be careful what I ask for.
But I'd like a conversation too.
Some kind of exchange. Something real time,
in person.
I know it scares you, or that you are hesitant about it
But I don't know why.
"I used to live in West Berlin. The East Germans called the Wall an "antifaschistische Verteidigungseinrichtung"/"
in person.
A few months ago, October (really?) you got your phone.
And you emailed me.
You called, and we spoke for 5 minutes.
You said it was something to tell your therapist about.
We haven't spoken much since.
The brunch and the pizza barely count
(I know she must think I'm a bad influence somehow,
that maybe I want something from you, maybe from you both.
Or that I am just plain insane, and better to stay away from)
There must be a few walls between us, literally.
My bedroom wall, then the next apartment,
the older lady, American, very nice.
Then our dead neighbor,
she must have a few walls and windows.
And then your outside wall.
Maybe 5, not quite as many as 10.
Bigger than the Great Wall of China
"antifaschistische Verteidigungseinrichtung"
and anything in Germany.
I miss you like I miss the Dead.
Like I miss all those friends I loved when I said goodbye
and they rode away from my arms,
never to be seen again.
I never know when you will break through that wall.
Or if I should wait.
I miss you sir,
heal yourself.
I will keep singing to you, even if you can't hear the song.
is the striving for the thing I cannot grasp
Extending my body fully, extending into the sky, my fingers
Curved like a bow,
The pictures he sent, of Iceland.
Enchanting and glistening like oil paint,
teasing me with their size and their monochrome.
I wanted
I want to capture them
These GRAND landscapes
(lance-capes)
volcanic vistas and waters,
roads, unending on a small large island
I love that I could try to paint them 500 times
and never get them right.
But even the failures could be beautiful.
And so it is with you,
I have tried 500 times with you,
(more maybe, and there will be more in the future)
500 hellos.
500 gestures, countless, even.
And today our eyes met.
I MISS you.
I was carrying 3 bags and 2 dogs
were trying to trip me.
I walked through OUR courtyard
and you were in your kitchen.
Our eyes met through the gauzy curtain you have.
Did you hate me then?
Did you recognize me?
I would allow myself sadness, or torture,
but it is a dull ache now.
I knew from the beginning that I could never paint Iceland.
And I always knew that we would not have a normal friendship.
That you were not someone I could invite over for Doritos, or I could come over for coffee,
But even the mistakes and failures are beautiful.
I ache for the days of sitting in the car with you
and even, stumbling words, I could make you laugh.
Seeing a carefree smile on your face is like
seeing a picture of a mountain against the clear cold blue sky
and feeling the wind, from a photograph.
I can keep you on a wall, on a shelf,
frozen, hibernation, music held on pause.
But I saw you,
and I know you saw me.
Is this the Bipolar part?
The depressed, scared part that regrets opening up to me during a manic episode?
I know you prefer to keep yourself hidden.
You opened up to me and I saw a treasure.
But now you keep yourself buried.
Send me away if you hate me.
Or send me a message if you can, smuggle it out to me.
As I know you have.
(Here I know I should be careful what I ask for.
But I'd like a conversation too.
Some kind of exchange. Something real time,
in person.
I know it scares you, or that you are hesitant about it
But I don't know why.
"I used to live in West Berlin. The East Germans called the Wall an "antifaschistische Verteidigungseinrichtung"/"
in person.
A few months ago, October (really?) you got your phone.
And you emailed me.
You called, and we spoke for 5 minutes.
You said it was something to tell your therapist about.
We haven't spoken much since.
The brunch and the pizza barely count
(I know she must think I'm a bad influence somehow,
that maybe I want something from you, maybe from you both.
Or that I am just plain insane, and better to stay away from)
There must be a few walls between us, literally.
My bedroom wall, then the next apartment,
the older lady, American, very nice.
Then our dead neighbor,
she must have a few walls and windows.
And then your outside wall.
Maybe 5, not quite as many as 10.
Bigger than the Great Wall of China
"antifaschistische Verteidigungseinrichtung"
and anything in Germany.
I miss you like I miss the Dead.
Like I miss all those friends I loved when I said goodbye
and they rode away from my arms,
never to be seen again.
I never know when you will break through that wall.
Or if I should wait.
I miss you sir,
heal yourself.
I will keep singing to you, even if you can't hear the song.
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