Museum

“I’m doing it all to myself,” I think, in bed, emotions clenching. Bring it down and descend. Resistance. I try again to bring it down and again it rises and I lift, too.

“You are the apex of mental and physical beauty.”

“I don’t even know what to do with you.”

“I love you.”

The roar of frustration, of not knowing how to secure that which has become too dear to even think of in such terms.

“Maybe there’s nothing we can do with each-other,” I say.

My tenderness has the capacity to crush you, so forceful it is, so charged and so immense. How can you know from the grip of it that you are in the grip of it? I release it and see the sky at your feet. And you: out of frame.

Oh, the more I start to live my life outside of you the more I come to understand your life outside of me.

 

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