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I can’t blame my kin for forgetting that the form for my life’s emotional content isn’t, as one might expect, a family but an entire world, a wilderness ruled by unknowing inside which I’m a future relic. What binds us is the knowledge that it can be devastating to discover that a loved one has forfeited everything to that which you’ll never fully see for yourself. To love someone is firstly to confess: I’m prepared to be devastated by you.
On my knees, before him, he taught me how to long as though longing alone could propel me into the future.
it occurred to me that what I wanted wasn’t to write a novel but to fall in love. Both were overwhelmingly possible, which perhaps explains why I accomplished neither.
My sadness is an elongated state of emergency. I dream in the color of sadness. I speak the bastardized language of sadness.
If I try to compose anything but sad poems, I fear it’ll be akin to a widower trying to convince others that he has found happiness again by wearing a T-shirt that says HAPPINESS.
What good is it now that I’ve tasted on your lips all the hope in the apartment?
