“To burn with desire and keep quiet about it is the greatest punishment we can bring on ourselves.” ― Federico García Lorca,
New York City — One cold winter night, 1996
Your futon is hard to sit on but with you sitting next to me, huddled in the glow of the television in an otherwise darkened room, feeling your body pressed against me, smelling your perfume as I run my fingers through your hair, the night outside doesn’t seem so brutal, so ominous.
Looking out from the watchtower you hope to one day find me up there with you; but isn’t it possible that after all we shared that I had been in mine watching out for you? I love you but you put that love in a boat and watched it burn — a Viking funeral on the shores of thickening sick. You used your burning scythe to destroy that love in utero.
As the cars hiss by on the street below, spraying the rain behind them, I feel a warmth I haven’t felt in a very long time. We are so close yet the chasm between us is deep. We’re both looking over the edge staring down into the abyss, afraid to leap towards what could await us.
It is said that if you look into one’s eyes you can see the universe. Perhaps if you look in the mirror, decorated with snapshots and decals of Jesus, you will see the universe too.