I’m listening to a song I think you’d like. It’s about
California and being involuntarily
alive. It’s about grapes, and a mattress, and a hand
touching another hand without pulling
away. “EVERY MOMENT IN THE TRAJECTORY
OF HUMAN HISTORY EXISTS
FOREVER,” says a scientist who has the startled eyes
to prove it. Which means somewhere
my body is always meeting your body for the first time.
Somewhere else, in the belly of the
beast, I sit, always young and unrough, trapping your
brain in a tin can to hear the stunning rattle
of your thoughts. Somewhere else, ripe with shameful
faith, you wipe the bruises from your
knees and always decide prematurely that you love me.
But no where, of course, do you actually
love me. Which means somewhere else, I’m in a car,
always moving in the opposite direction
of you, writing you a postcard that says, “I miss you.
I’m glad you aren’t here.”
(via clarateaa)
