I laughed when you brought up “mystery” again, in reference to me(!) and how perhaps my writing is “open, but not very revealing.”
Excerpt from the scribblings in my notebook:
July 3rd, 10:41am
The depth and mystery of you has ruined me-
Like the liberty (luxury) of jumping in the deep end and not having to fear that I’ll hit the bottom;
trust me, you beckon- there are great barriers and reefs to swim past yet.
The kiddie pool just won’t do, we’ve grown out of it —
And the shallow end, I can see down to the floor —
What use would I have then of diving?
It’s all impossible:
Humidity that doesn’t glisten upon the waves of our summer bodies’ heat;
Perfect shades of sky that disallow us from taking it all for granted;
Time that doesn’t pass in the blink of an eye when you’re by my side;
Sunsets that don’t eventually turn into unseeable darkness;
Hope that isn’t wildly misplaced;
Irises not growing in anticipation at looking into yours;
Letting you love me.
“Bear with me,” I ask.
“Bare with me,” you plead, perhaps not knowing I am already here drowning in your sea, bare and vulnerable. All of me.
Siken reminds us, “Tell me how all this, and love too, will ruin us.”
“It’s ok,” I whisper back. “You need not tell me anything about ruin.”
I don’t need reminding. You’ve already finished the job, and I’m willingly lost at sea.
* * *
Oliver wrote in A Pretty Song:
From the complications of loving you,
I think there is no end or return.
No answer, no coming out of it.
Which is the only way to love, isn’t it?
This isn’t a playground, this is
earth, our heaven, for a while.
* * *
A. messaged me after reading this post and asked if I would like to record poems and share them together. This morning, Anne Sexton’s “I Remember” sitting in my messages.
This morning, in response to A. and to pair with the post above, Richard Siken’s Scheherazade (you can hear a building being pulled apart in the background, which is apt, so I didn’t re-record it).