Sunlight on the door –
hidden years, a golden sphere –
thoughts of stories no one reads
and a life comprised
of loves in darker places.
All those words, all those everyday sights with their hidden meanings, weighted in the significance we chose so carefully or with such abandon . I still look for them. I still see the world through eyes I think of as yours alone.
I have been seen as beautiful. I have been desired. I have had a way with me. The detached appraisal of a strangers eye is objectifying and exhilarating; to be reduced to the physical brings a carnal simplicity to the world. But now I feel invisible rather than invincible. Perhaps I am resting or perhaps my day has gone and I am finally in perdue (the romantic notion of fern seeds in my pocket has literally come true). That my appearance should matter affronts my intellect. And yet , I am ashamed of how much I crave the mythology you spun so beautifully about my person. I want back that look in Thomas’s eyes, so full of desire in the pastel room in the Museum D’Orsay, where I was both whore and culprit. I covet the power I once held so gently, so lightly, as I stood before you. I want to see the force of your longing which rendered me powerless and so subtly in control.
We were funambulists you and I, we really did walk that delicious line between the falling and the flying; we were knife-edged and breath-held lovers. Perhaps, above all else, I wonder if it was that tension, that wonderful, tautly wound sexual lunacy which was our downfall ? Such magic, by its very nature is unsustainable. It is greedy, it is insatiable , it is an insane way to exist with all its hungry impatience. Perhaps such a life lived out loud will finally, inescapably burn itself out.
And yet. In the quiet aftermath I still struggle to contain myself. I am spilled , I am opened, I am raw. It seems I am still a balancing act.