I am getting smarter and smarter, even if I pay for it with pieces of my heart.

No blessing is to be made with you, no salvation to behold, no song to sing. Somewhere in your closed eyes our initial love crashes to the ground.

It comes from an earlier time, when the abuse still poured over us unprotected, like a all-encompassing summer shower.

No sense is in the making. Only scraps of my being, scraps of my walking in the reflections of light.

Where do we see our salvation?

Claws and arms of society. Healing around me. Held in this place.

It is an unreal world. That which is there around me does not exist. Perhaps also because the people themselves do not exist. In their unbrokenness, in their coherence, in the appearance of their sociality. There is nothing, no human, no being, no love. It would only arise in the addressing of it.

And so it is now that my life has changed. After I as a teenager despised this world out of fear or intuition, understood it as a land of death. Instead of it came a kissing with these mummies and buried people, these who don’t-want-to-feel-the-pain. These still-attached-to-the-world-and-holding-on-to-life. And I ought to break on them.

The common ones are burning up in the clutter of the present. Without glory, without the tremendous hope of a new time.

AND WHERE ARE THE PATHS OF THE TO COME. WHERE IS THE DEW, THE SWEETNESS, AND THE WAY? I SAW IT, EXPLORED IT, I’LL BE BACK, BRUISED FROM THE HEDGES. TO SHOW YOU WHAT I SAW.

With people who have any positive relationship with their family, that is, their elders, and be it their siblings (or having mostly friends who do), I am incompatible.

I am a swan song, a total restriction of this way of life.

AND YOU NEVER TOLD ME HOW I WAS EVERYTHING IN YOUR DISCRETION, IN YOUR FAILING, IN THE SOBBING OF YOUR HEART. HOW YOU STOOD THERE ALONE, AND OUT OF VANITY OR PIETY OF WHAT WAS COMMANDED TO YOU, DID NOT SPEAK TO ME, DID NOT RISE TO ME, DID NOT MAKE THE HONEST ATTEMPT. HOW YOU PERISH AND REMAIN IN A DISPOSITION APPROPRIATE TO YOU.

No world to knit, no path to light, no territory to reach.

How I drew from you in the water of hope, in your presence

Describing is like that: the processes, beings, figures, become real, enter into me, become tactile in the grasping of my hands, speakable as words from my mouths, and actable as shared experiences of our spirits. As your body is mine as lived experience in which we consorted.

So your belly is taut, soft skin. Athleticism. Entangling under my body. Bending and disbelieving to see such a thing, desiring and melting, beneath me. And your hair, when I reach the limits of my strength, bracing against your arousals, the exhaustion of my hands to hold you in moving. And then you stand in the room and around your waist is the towel like a Persian rug, and your hair is streaked to the side. The leaves outside the window are glowing. And everything rushes as if on the street there was the sea – which we have jointly taken here.

And in the conversations with my fictional therapist, I tell indispensably that you, yes You, are the only reason I am still alive, ever was alive. Because you were like a daughter, and showed me what it is to be a family.

No thing too big, no dream too distant, no reality too piercing.

For in spite of everything, and perhaps I am simply wired, or too isolated, I have rarely, never, felt such a kinship in being with, such a vibrancy in togetherness, as with you. But all that doesn’t matter, you don’t want to hear it. I have already tried to say that, and it seeped away unheard.