Why are you so interested, anyway?

August 5, 2012 § Leave a comment

You can write all you want in the sand. I won’t be there to read it.

I’ve gone to search for god-truth in the dunes, the streets, outside restaurants, in fields of sunflowers, between tables and cigarettes, south of Roma even, where the searching is punctuated by sunshine and I’m melting, the eternal truth lies fast between two lines.

Not a cross, but an ‘x’, marking the spot where the thing I knew I had was found, was owned, was had.

Coffee, then whatever. I won’t be there to hold you into the early hours and the clear-skied cold of the Tuscan AM, or over the ‘summer of love’ blaring brightly from the screen in the corner.

You can knock all you want on 220 because I’m not there anymore and I won’t answer or call from my balcony or rent a bike to see the sun go down with you, or feel tragic when the full moon frowns down at our lovemaking, or just. Listening.

I’m returning to neuro-surgeons and attorneys and dinner at Hotel Astoria and cars that start and doors opened and this which is the opposite of love but fills evenings with prosecco, politics and opinions. Weekends in Cinque Terre and comparisons to Audrey Tautou in ‘Hors de Prix’ and the waiter on the motorino is always. You.

It’s not what I want but what I need in the moment that calls out, as if from a sea-scroll, the bare necessities of this existence, halfway up and halfway down a Florentine mountain. I’ll see you again.

Otherwise I would have let the ocean of feeling run down my cheeks from my spirit-ceiling and out of the room, clung to you and screamed in broken Italian and packed my case, and started all over again, like at eighteen. There are no ‘lessons’ just new strings and new ways to tie them up with old fingers, new ways to get lost in string forest and lose all feeling. And then.

Find it again.

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