I see your past in cross-processed film, in blown-out colors and over-saturation. You told me all about it, told me grand stories: you were going to go back in time and save the world. I see your past in yellows and browns, in umber and sienna and amber, in a younger sun. You sat and told me how — and you were always sitting — you thought past-you dreamt of a future less complicated than today. I see your past through film-grain and vignette, with a thick white border, space on the bottom to write. You told me how you learned so many imperfect things, in so many less than ideal ways, always at inopportune times. I see your past in architectural drawings of unrealized buildings, in paperback covers reaching towards heaven, in trillions of words. You figured past you dreamt of, not perfection, but a world unconstrained by so many failures. I see your past with no me in it, and wonder if past-you dreamt of us.
Resuscitating ancient coins in class, we learned, takes a toothbrush and olive oil. Slow, steady strokes across, around... soft bristles dislodging soil one speck at a time. But no one that day was nearly as blessed, seeing a coin shine through at the end, full relief brightly expressed, as I was to see you smile.
When you arrive, the whole world gets slow. Sluggish, amber-colored air mellows lively conversations. Everyone stops, marvels, turns eagerly toward you; and there are no complaints about warming our faces in the sun.
We fit together in the strangest ways and seem to seek new seams to savor. Such joins are hardly perfect, thread tugging fabric unevenly unless it's reinforced over and over again. We seem to seek new seams to savor, and, weak though they are, revel in the imperfect unevenness of joining.
"Comrade" would I call you, and "brave," and "fierce" and "true". "Lovely" have I called you, and hope but to live up to the example which you set for me. So, comrade, onward, ever onward. I know I cannot hope to offer much but word on cloying word, dull rhymes I strain to proffer: small flowers, small gifts, camaraderie.
Complementary, clashing anxieties. Dull clamor of intersecting feelings. Need, desire, craving, jealousy. Worry, fear, care, prayerful fretting. Love, lust, friendship, a need to share. Emotions on emotions on emotions, and, often, comfortable silence.
I chose your name. To defend, it means. To help. I admit, having chosen it, that I chose it to defend you. When I picked you up by the scruff, Dragged you off to that place I hoped we could call ours, I expected that we'd simply find a way to survive. I never expected love, and rejoice every day in that surprise. I chose to collar you. I admit it was an experiment, I submit to most, but not my partners; until then I'd never owned, claimed. It felt vulgar, at first, greedy, jealous, possessive. Through you I learned the joy of possession, the love and trust and exactness of terms. Owner, partner, love, and pup, partner, love. My beautiful, my own. I'll hand you off some day. I'm a less than ideal owner in so many terrible ways: I owe you more than you owe me. I'll gather your leash up, I'll let you keep your tag, I'll bow, I'll kiss you one last time, and I'll bless you and your new keeper. And I'll never stop loving you. And I'll never stop loving you. And I'll never stop loving you.
You, for whom a heart means all feeling — You, for whom yeah is an expletive — You, for whom even computers sing — You, for whom every tangle invites disentangling — You, for whom even I will rub feet — You, for whom shop always follows flop — You, for whom words form a squall-line — You, for whom I guess I — You, for whom — You, for whom even — You, for whom I reach — You, for whom my shit day leads straight to lets talk — You, for whom I curate my week's feelings — You, for whom I wait by the month — You, for whom I structure my year — You, for whom understanding of me seems always in grasp — You, for whom my struggles provide no obstacle — You and I, from whom us.
Tightly wound springs Of very carefully Not touching. Secret words To be said With confidence. Rules. Prohibitions. Limits. Discussions planned, Side-channels arranged, Whiskey purchased. And now anxiety Over what it means And how to work it. Is it worth it for Long-standing questions To be answered? To invite disaster For sake of knowledge And further dreams? Maybe the answer Is that tired refrain: Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps. And now we're Awaiting weeks Of careful touches.