My Life Thing (psithurism)
Sometimes I serve myself on the happy chamaecyparis table by the corner of my room next to where wild things like small spiders and egos roam. Weed seeds sprouts happily out of stale tea cups, and there in the inside, my favorite songs gets trapped, and this seems to be the only life that might be happening in this room. Certainly, all else is beyond perception. At the night outside, the wind blows. And seeds from trees and dry August leaves and dead flower parts run intimately on the roofing, acid-jazz tapping the iron sheets.
Inside, the heart glows.
Sometimes after I have nothing else in my mind, when even the prettiest of my thoughts are calm, I let my hands hold themselves. I always wonder why they feel awkward in such embraces. Most of those times, I always feel as if my hands are not my own. And they detach hurriedly with an ache of yours, yours that have little colored bubbles that flies around your palms like atoms and sings happy songs to the rainbows that radiant joyfully in them.
"You’ve heard of those guys over in California trying to bring back the passenger pigeon that’s been extinct for years and years."
I imagine taking the dress you wore on your birthday off, and how slowly I would do it while listening, and zoning out, to the sounds beautiful dresses like those can make. Think Floating Points. Elaenia. Sometimes, I imagine you undressing me instead. I would then fuck the Anaïs Nin out of you, (I’m still obsessed with her after all those years) and read the notes you might have thought of writing on Wilhelm Reich, on Woolf, on Vincent Vega, on taking my exes out for a date. That was yesterday. And we hoped you don’t get headaches because of the many choices that you can have.
Yes, these celestial bodies is all we have! I imagine your pussy lips as two crescent moons.
We can always go away from ourselves, to places that can only exist in our subconscious. And still then-
I want to relisten to everything you ever said to me. Even the dreams you've ever had of me, and all the conversations you ever imagined of having with me.
D’Angelo’s "Black Messiah" - dec. 2014
You lay across me, your eyes warm like the home I needed to have.