V

Lockdown 2.0

Wed, 14 Jan 2009 16:31:20 GMT

FRIENDS ONLY.
x

L.O.

Wed, 17 Sep 2008 15:43:51 GMT

My Dearest Joel,

How have you been? I do not know if you still do read this space. I hope you have been well. I've battled sleepless nights, lost of appetite for days and a fever. There is still so much I want to say to you, so many questions I have unanswered. You wouldn't believe how much I'm reminded of you everyday. Places, things, songs, words, everything. I've let you go and I'm not bitter anymore, because I know that what we had was real. Something which no one else can ever understand. And if in some distant place in the future we see each other in our new lives, I'll smile at you with joy and remember how we spent the summer, learning from each other and growing in love. The best love is the kind that awakens the soul and makes us reach for more, that plants a fire in our hearts and brings peace to our minds, and that's what you've given me. That's what I hope to give to you forever. Thank you for all the great memories and everything we've shared together. I will always remember the first time I saw you, our conversations, our first date, the first time you held my hand, the time where we shared our first kiss, our first holiday, the places we visited. Remember The List I wrote you? I meant every single word in that and still do, I always will. Thank you for having let me into your life. Life works in mysterious ways and hey, who knows, our paths might cross again someday like how it did. I wish you well and pray you find love. You will always be in my thoughts and heart. Please keep safe and take care, especially in the coming months. I love you. Always have and always will. I'll be seeing you.

Vanessa

XVII

Tue, 29 Apr 2008 02:17:04 GMT

I do not love you as if you were a salt rose, or topaz
or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.

I love you as the plant that never blooms
but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;
thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,
risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.
I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;
So I love you because I know no other way

than this: where 'I' does not exist, nor 'you',
so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,
so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.

hkwj

Mon, 28 Apr 2008 06:33:59 GMT

I’m sure that I will always be
A lonely number like root three

The three is all that’s good and right,
Why must my three keep out of sight
Beneath the vicious square root sign,
I wish instead I were a nine

For nine could thwart this evil trick,
with just some quick arithmetic

I know I’ll never see the sun, as 1.7321
Such is my reality, a sad irrationality

When hark! What is this I see,
Another square root of a three

As quietly co-waltzing by,
Together now we multiply
To form a number we prefer,
Rejoicing as an integer

We break free from our mortal bonds
With the wave of magic wands

Our square root signs become unglued
Your love for me has been renewed

Why is love intensified by absence?

Sun, 23 Mar 2008 10:28:44 GMT

I wait for him. Each moment that I wait feels like a year, an eternity. Each moment is as slow and transparent as glass. Through each moment I can see infinite moments lined up, waiting. Why has he gone where I cannot follow?

-

It's ironic, really. All my pleasures are homey ones: armchair splendor, the sedate excitements of domesticity. All I ask for are humble delights. A mystery novel in bed, the smell of Clare's long red-gold hair damp from washing, a postcard from a friend on vacation, cream dispersing into coffee, the softness of the skin under Clare's breasts, the symmetry of grocery bags sitting on the kitchen counter waiting to be unpacked. I love meandering through the stacks at the library after the patrons have gone home, lightly touching the spines of the books. These are the things that can pierce me with longing when I am displaced from them by Time's whim.

And Clare, always Clare. Clare in the morning, sleepy and crumple-faced. Clare with her arms plunging into the papermaking vat, pulling up the mold and shaking it so, and so, to meld the fibers. Clare reading, with her hair hanging over the back of the chair, massaging balm into her cracked red hands before bed. Clare's low voice is in my ear often.

I hate to be where she is not, when she is not. And yet, I am always going, and she cannot follow.

Tue, 01 Jan 2008 12:32:02 GMT

I know I am.

Sat, 13 Jan 2007 05:21:44 GMT

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