I feel like a useless person.
There is a softness to your presence,
and yet a weight so intense and concentrated,
that even my words have a hard time forming to explain it.
I think there is a difference between wanting someone to fill that spot next to you and wanting that spot next to you filled by someone. One is general and hopeful and broad and one is particular and wishful and holds a sense of direction. There is a context for each of them, and they may overlap in some regards. But I think there is a difference somewhere between them.
Times I could have done better.
When my dad tells me that the fact that I sometimes paint now when I used to hate the idea of doing it even though he would tell me to try means that he “won”, it makes me never want to paint again.
My heart hangs on you,
Nail into photograph on wall,
A self portrait addressing the summer and fall.
I think about the concepts behind feelings and wonder if you do the same. And i wonder if you leave yourself open somewhere for a future where extended glances could be allowed to unseal the letters they close so tight. Letters that discuss theways in which i think of your soft expressions as the whisper of sunday morning, so elegant and alive. I, willing to row myself at a pace so slow as to allow the birds to circle and the fish to pass under in an omen of good luck. If at will i dock, i would attempt to find you in the city walls and send you good mornings wrapped in unspoken sheets.