Friday, August 24, 2007

Mark

Some people go through their entire lives never feeling love this deeply. Funny how the time goes. People say, when you're in love, that time slows down or speeds up. Time always seems to be doing funny things in these varied renditions. Watching the tape -- watching her -- it wasn't like that at all. Time was the way that time always is, consistent, marking down the seconds in linear fashion as I didn't think of what to say next.

The air outside the apartment is cold, and I vacillate. There are defining moments that you can recognize -- I am trapped in self awareness, turning circles on the concrete, and feeling the air burn down my esophagus, move cleanly through my nose, trickle down the open sides of my collar. I am trying to locate myself in the physical world, out of the mental, which churns not understanding how everything quickly towards entropy.

And, if she had never been Peter's (or her own) I still would have wanted her for mine, that I know. This is not a case of jealousy or misplaced affections. If I had only seen her in passing the result would have been the same. Wait, I take that back; how can I know what I would be in other realities that I have never experienced? All I know is this turmoil that I try so hard to quell, this secret that is bust wide open. And what to do what to do -- there is nothing to be done.

I don't kid myself into thinking that I am lucky for loving, for having this depth and strength of feeling. Unrequited love is the most romanced of all. Like so many others, I dwell on what is never mine to have. The sweetness is that it will never grow old. How can the actual compete with the imagined? The daily realities can never compare with these perfections our minds create. It is the ephemeral. It is that which can not be grasped that will forever rattle around in our consciousness. We can not have good days, bad days, anything that will taint the image.

I am rationalizing to save myself. What can I do now? Isn't that the real question. My most private thoughts, hidden for all our sakes, have been blasted on the screen in Technicolor, overly dramatized, too clear to be denied. It is not to be pursued, and I will not apologize for it. This walk in the cold in not contrition. People do not apologize for loving others.

And if there is a tightness in me not derived from the cold but from you, I can distract myself ever so briefly by the tactile as I run my palm over this curve of concrete. There is nothing to do now but walk and not think of what comes next.

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