Te amo sin saber como, ni cuando, ni de donde

Ours is not a story in the conventional sense. It lacks cohesiveness; there is no beginning, only a fleshy middle that aches like carved bone when remembered because each remembrance is like a rebirth of self.

"I think I love you". There is no pause between the words, no time to think, to backtrack, or even to breathe. The words are not rushed, but steady and dense, so that when they make contact with the silence, there is no echo.

What is a promise worth? How do we measure worth? Is it defined by the binary emotions of love and hate- so strong that the tears burn and the jaw quivers until there is only staggered, stuttered breathing that makes rhythm with the violent clenching of fists- until even the rage that beats against our lungs shrivels, sags, wilts into timidity? Or is it fluid, and flowing and s m o o t h, a gentle stream with occassional hiccups of spontaneous bubbles that are quelched by that act of familiarity that enamors, endears, exasperates, estranges?

And then there is ennui. A big yawn of perfunctory idleness and activity. Sometimes there is anticipation, mostly there is indolent unrest.

But there is the hope of the unrequited that awaits at the foot of today, and thoughts can't help but be pulled, no, forcefully propelled, towards idealized remembrance to fill the small pores of yearning that have yet to be sated.

When impacted silence weighs heavier than one hundred words,

"Time does not bring relief...
And entering with relief some quiet place
Where never fell his foot or shone his face
I say, 'There is no memory of him here!'
And so stand stricken, so remembering him."
-Edna St Vincent Millay


...and that which we loved, love, infinitive love, comes to haunt us again in the twinkle of a gaze, the tilt of a head, the tune of a song, and there is only this- no why or how or when will it stop- just this, this that can be no more.





by christine at 11:39 PM ©

---