Saturday, August 25, 2007

tell me on a sunday.

Tell me about the dream where we pull the bodies out of the lake
and dress them in warm clothes again.
How it was late, and no one could sleep, the horses running
Until they forget that they are horses.
It’s not like a tree where the roots have to end somewhere,
it’s more like a song on a policeman’s radio,
how we rolled up the carpet so we could dance, and the days
were bright red, and every time we kissed there was another apple
to slice into pieces.
Look at the light through the windowpane. That means it’s noon, that means
we’re inconsolable.
Tell me how all this, and love too, will ruin us.
These, our bodies, possessed by light.
Tell me we’ll never get used to it.

Scheherazade by Richard Siken
i'm thinking of... peking in the winter. i fell in love with that city two years ago - the busy streets, the crowded metro, the haunting architecture, the living and breathing culture, the passive-aggressive chinese people.

i'm thinking of you guys, how much you give me something to stand on, something to trust in.

i'm thinking of you and me, how we did not or could not make it happen.

i'm thinking of a strange, foreign feeling - the feeling of being alone in a park covered with trees, sitting cross-legged and silent, watching the leaves fall.

i'm thinking that, i've looked at love from both sides now, from give and take and still somehow it's love's illusions i recall. i really don't know love at all.

i'm thinking that, some things will come true, eventually.


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