purging letters
May 2211
1.
to my aquariun urn //
being needed causes that flower in your chest to unfold intrusively unyieldingly. what good is it to me if their need does not come with steadfastness of the heart? if everyone hears about your mismatched intensity toward me except the pattern-bearer? it is of no use to either of us now, now that all that had to be revealed and swallowed with a hardened gullet has folded over, collapsed, long touched completion? this is no good to me. i must leave your palm open and unsatiated, there is some other place i’d like to be, some other urn to pour myself into. i must i must. are you aching? perhaps you will fold into this ache of yours as i did. certain flaccid truths sway in their momentums and sharpness but never enough to surrender when they are compelled to until they are immoblised. the last twist of the flame has passed with the winds.
2.
for ⠀ sea anemone //
i am thinking about the ways of leaving. the why’s. i am tired of a why being the starting point. to stay is to give, and i am bitter about giving, i am bitter about sticking it out with you. my tongue is frozen, speech all rusty and crackling. you wouldn’t want to know, we are better off in the smoke of the absence of my voice. this is a letter to you, dearest, i am only now coming to terms with the inevitable elusive addressee of what i wish to keep unnamed. very soon, with the silence of my unbridling, i will become stiff with wordlessness. take this most literally, my bones will snap into stasis, blood will thin, my chest will host once more the intrusive and cold and speckled bludgeoning. take my words lightly so that we may speak with easeful faces when i see you again. the intruder is swiftly shifting from underneath the door and into the focal point of my sternum by now. in the disconcerting and resonating immobility do we find the dually most raw and the most ripe material for our fissures to bind themselves, where remedies are discovered over and over everywhere in our histories.
take this with the overture of my guilt which i cannot locate on the map of my body to you. but next to my body is yours [memory], easefully laughing, perhaps laughing til our ribs are tough is ordained for us all and our dear ones. i have half-mourned you already, half-presences unsettle me; dissolution has in part been actualised. do half-presences unsettle you? i was moving along this sensation some hours ago, watchful of the momentum of the greens, trying to embolden the rhythm of a long-loved song in their familial intimating torrents.
where do we go from here? if i’d known the two scripts of my language i would write to you in them, you would write to me in yours, and i would hold onto those love-accoutrements without ever knowing what words were spoken. in the lucid folds of my language my gait would become more unbarred and confessional, i’d write reassured you would never read it. i cannot stop thinking about language. speaking to you, dearest, in a language that belongs to neither of us is the wisp that keeps us tethered. i have a futile and evasive desperation to break free from those that don’t truly bind me. involving our own tongues would untether us, and this impenetrable rust and grease of my years drags me to a tender exit i am so intimate with. i let the night cross over, i will keep my mouthfuls and bearings to myself.
ancestors had fought over names and reclamations, and all this was to drag us to each other using borrowed words. i don’t know if you remember class from two years ago but i have been abrasively bad at any language except this one.
the window home tells of one ultimate fragility. the solar flare of the lamp nervously flickering between my curtains keeps me from dozing into restoration.