There is a gap, like a raft in time, a void I can't comprehend. Like a dream I can acknowledge, as it took shape during a long night — yet lacking eternal presence, lacking eternal blessing, for a distant memory of a reduction, a space between "I will love you forever" and the landing of the last words, a list 7 pages long that describes me as unworthy of loving. For I have not flowered from within, yet over giving, over affectionate with all the gusters of care.
For I fear to meet her eyes in a dream, as the words echo, leaving me holding a crippling fear, lacking words, unable to give an answer, so my presence took form into tears — who failed to worship. I'm down to my knees. Something in me is lost, part of me is missing, and as I suffer from feeling — what feelings have you suffered, over giving, over affectionate. Lacking a center that withholds,
for eyes I fear to meet in dreams, comes a child, with a distant resemblance, he who has taken the moon as a lover — holding it still, holding it tight, into his arms, to his chest, for the moon to rest in his heart, running around, he is everywhere, jumping from joy. And he screams, "The moon, the moon is my lover." My lover is a blessing.
And as soon his eyes and my eyes meet, the moon falls into its place, taking absence. Abandoning my chest, my grip fails to hold it within. And as soon as my eyes and his eyes meet, we weep. He asks what have we lost — I lack an answer. He weeps, he feels less, he fears more. I weep for self-abandonment, so desperately loving who failed to worship.
Something in me is lost, lacking blessing upon the self, unable to dream of homes I no longer ask how to make you feel loved and I'm lacking all the desire to architect a heaven, like I'm held by a string, being swayed around a turbulence for a wind, pulled apart, lacking a center that withholds. And my eyes wander for her eyes, eyes that carry a kind longing, offering that center that holds — for the moon, yet it's absent, fell out of reach. And as I prostitute my grief, I'm being gazed at with a reduction,
who failed to worship as I was. I'm down on my knees, my lips are full and my tongue is kind, following a changing rhythm, for once im taking my time , for I'm worshiping a body formless in effect — disclosing only so much that it lacks an essence, with beauty so severe, short-lived, skin deep. Lacking privilege giving to all, yet ungiving of care — my love, why do you hide my toothbrush every single time I leave the house, my love that is the purest form of pain, so I pray to deny that memory, for it to take absence, to be freed from the strings. So can I deny a memory? I can. For I denied myself of its needs,
the experience of body, the immediate affect — my lips on your neck — there is no history of it happening, like a promise unfulfilled. A strawberry shortcake. No history of it happening. If it were to happen, there would be no history. I once took the moon as lover, and in a dream it fell out of reach, with a distance that can only be measured by how unkind the last words. Yet somehow I loved you forever.