At the end of that eternal summer, I found myself back where everything began: lying on the wooden pew, staring out the window at that violaceous pink streaking the palm tree laden skies. There in the darkening cathedral, I was reminded of the poetry of your hipbone, slipping into the hollows between your ribs, my lips against your skin in silent prayer. Some things were easier to worship – though I didn’t know it back then. 

“Addiction is tricky. For example: a man who quit smoking for 11 years spent 15 seconds in an elevator with a man smoking a cigarette. He gave in. What I’m trying to say is, I think I love you again.”

Chinadoll

"Hello, hello. C-can you hear me? I can be your china doll, if you wanna to see me fall. 

Boy you're so dope, your love is deadly, tell me life is beautiful, they all think I have it all. 

I've nothing without you, all my dreams and all the lights mean, nothing without you."

Nuclear Winter

In the midst of winter, I found there was, within me, an invincible summer. (Alfred Camus) 

We missed the Geminids again this year, back in December when the moon was new and the chill had already begun seeping through the floorboards. Still, we’ve never been so far North where it snows in April, admist bolts of lightening and fleeting rain. I have been reading a lot lately to pass the time, falling in and out of insomnia, phasing into hazy dreams that leave me more exhausted than before. At times it seems as if winter would never end, that spring has forsaken us to rot in this desolate wasteland, and I am wasting along with it, collapsing into myself, scattering into stardust.

March is the end of an era, yet in many ways it might just be the beginning. Not that there is anything wrong with a little metaphorical death, but we have conquered too many mountains and come too far for giving up to even be an option. Everything has changed, nothing has changed. Come morning, despite the laws of physics and the steady decay of radioactive elements, my bones are still my bones (and your heart, still your heart). If there is any true logic in this universe, we’ll find ourselves on that bridge again someday, watching the streetlights blink in and out of focus, waiting for the dizzying rush of blood as the world tilts and rotates. I see the stars my dear, and they are calling me home.

Goodbye To All That

"That was the year, my twenty-eight, when I was discovering that not all of the promises would be kept, that some things are in fact irrevocable and that it had counted after all, every evasion and ever procrastination, every word, all of it. 

That is what it was all about, wasn’t it? Promises? Now when New York comes back to me it comes in hallucinatory flashes, so clinically detailed that I sometimes wish that memory would effect the distortion with which it is commonly credited. For a lot of the time I was in New York I used a perfume called Fleurs de Rocaille, and then L’Air du Temps, and now the slightest trace of either can short-circuit my connections for the rest of the day. Nor can I smell Henri Bendel jasmine soap without falling back into the past, or the particular mixture of spices used for boiling crabs. There were barrels of crab boil in a Czech place in the Eighties where I once shopped. Smells, of course, are notorious memory stimuli, but there are other things which affect me the same way. Blue-and-white striped sheets. Vermouth cassis. Some faded nightgowns which were new in 1959 or 1960, and some chiffon scarves I bought about the same time. " 

 — Joan Didion

Dying Gracefully

Sometimes I wonder where I would be if it wasn’t for you. Probably still wandering across open highways, dreaming in the window-seat, getting lost everywhere, except in reality. Do you remember when we first met? Underneath the swing set in the warm summer evening, or maybe, at the bookstore that burned down a few months ago. I hope it was at the bookstore. Though, I suppose it doesn’t really matter anymore. 

 I cut my hair before I left and kept the locks in your library drawer. It’s not a promise per se, but it’s not a not-promise either. Sentiment, at best. I imagine that when we meet again, it’ll have grown out once more. And perhaps, next time, we can meet on even ground as strangers instead of heart-broken fools. For it was you who reached for me first and I would like to think that one day, I could be the one to reach for you. For you have always been to me, a tempestuous, fleeting thing, like a cold spring rain; and like petals, I find myself caught up in the whirlwind, scattering in a most beautiful kind of death. 

Please take this cup, and let me fill it up with sake. 

Even a beautiful flower, loses its petals due to the storm. 

Life is only a "goodbye".

Tea & Sympathy