It Lasts Forever and Then It's Over

by Anne de Marcken

Or I can pretend it is your arm and that you are in bed with me.

Wake with sand in our hair and in the corners of our eyes. Sound of the ocean big as the sky. I miss sleep. I miss you.

The thought that I might read it and pass it by, just go on to the next name, is terrible. Like meeting you in another life and failing to recognize you.

I pretended to wake you up and tell you. I said out loud: “Don’t let me forget—owl pellets.”

Sigh

Also, the moon is always full.

A moment when I can hear the open line and I think it will be you there in that blankness. After I don’t know how many times, the line goes dead. I sit on the edge of the bed with the phone to my ear. Now it is just a piece of plastic.

Emptiness spills into me. My ear is the Panama Canal connecting two oceans of emptiness. The emptiness out there and an emptiness in me.

It is so silent it is loud. It is unbearable. It is so familiar.

MAkes me feel ill

“Nothing can be more clear than the fact that nothing is real. Nothing is real. Nothing is real.”

This sometimes feels sickening and comforting. False and true all at once

Or maybe I am always only talking to you.

I lie still at the center of the hunger that is actually grief,

Hunger is only ravenous hope. A mirage. Always receding. The black swarm behind my teeth. There is no bottom to this well. No dark place to wait it out. Nothing will ever touch this craving for you.

“Why is the moon always full?” Marguerite says, “What is it filled with?” “Hunger?” I say. “Grief,” she says.

You do not know the end has happened until later. Or you do not admit it. Looking back, you can see it. And you realize that all the time after that was just an effort to keep going as if it weren’t already over.

Everything in me is sad and everything around me is a part of it.

I go west because west is where I remember you.

It takes all my willpower to not let go and at some point I decide it doesn’t matter so I do let go. But I was not actually holding on to anything so the feeling does not go away. Then I have the feeling of needing to let go and the feeling of having let go at the same time.

I think of all the time I spent deciding. Imagine what I missed. My whole life.

But it is also always when I love you most. The sick kick in my stomach and the time-lapse bloom of something like my heart go together now.

The same sound. No difference between ocean and wind and you.

“Any number can become lucky.”

It is unbearable to look back from the future we did not know we had been traveling toward.

Im sick

Whatever sound our footsteps make is swallowed up by surf we can’t see until the last rise when all the shining world comes into view and we are like two piles of leaves picked up by the wind. Everything that was separated into you and me is thrown together and tossed up into the sky.

Beautiful

Whatever sound our footsteps make is swallowed up by surf we can’t see until the last rise when all the shining world comes into view and we are like two piles of leaves picked up by the wind. Everything that was separated into you and me is thrown together and tossed up into the sky.

Beautiful

I wish that I had opened my eyes. I wish that I had turned from the window and looked at you in that moment when you were looking at me. This world slipped by me.

Oh my god oh my god this makes me want to puke. So often i have thiught this. This quote just ruined me in a way i did not expect. I am crying so suddenly.

I pretended everything would be okay because it seemed impossible to always be saying goodbye. To blueberries. To the ocean. To ravens. To pelicans and plovers. To the cormorants. To the sunlight on the living room wall at four o’clock. To the sound of you in the next room.

Shes really fucking me up

Here and there are strange reminders of a past before the past was everything before the end.

If the end escapes us where are we? —Hélène Cixous

will be there and through me you will be there. I think, if I am in the place where we were together, then we are together again.

These are really fucked up why did i read this

Through a particular shared longing for increase. We wanted more of each other and more life.

It was more like the future died. It became part of the past.

Things that ache. Real things and unreal things. It is pointless to wish I had the hunger back instead of this endless grief.

am crying even as I think about the crying. I think, this is what remains after the swarm. I think, this is emptiness itself.

Then there is a loneliness that roams. No rocking can hold it down. It is alive, on its own. A dry and spreading thing that makes the sound of one’s own feet going seem to come from a far-off place.

I wanted to grieve while I still had the solace of you.

When you have arrived at the thing itself, then all you can do is compare it to something else you don’t understand.

The only things that remain themselves are the ones you can never reach.

The space between me and me is you. This is a mystery.