Roses for the Stone


I sunk into your love like a stone, diving to the darkest pressure-filled depths of what might become. Inside of this place I discovered the space of what we are, of what life is–all of everything a form sheltering stillness–all of everything a construction pointing to the heart of silence–all of everything a song sung to express what can never be said.
Entry into your love was like entry into the earth´s atmosphere, burning away all of what I couldn’t shield. You burnt away everything that you could, razing parts of my heart, my mind–but you could not take away my future.
Love is a like a game in which you try to take away everything that the other person is so that you have something to keep, something to hold onto. Except when you approach the end with their pieces in your heart, you find that you’ve taken everything of yourself and thrown it out the window. As if you were sitting before a mirror, steadily and exactly destroying yourself. When you get to the peak you realize that you have been looking at yourself the whole time–and that you knew all along. Are you some kind of monster, tearing the world to pieces to find your existence?
The circles circling toward themselves can never find completion. Coming to where they think they once were, they find instead the space of the future.
Is it monstruous to seek love, and not simply to seek it, but to seek it in its fullest expression? Because love in its deepest incarnations necesitates a form of death, a scraping of the insides to mold out a hollowness that could cradle divinity.
We create fantasies to shield our minds from the burning that comes from our hearts.
I knew all of the fantasies that you created in me, and I led you through them knowing that I was leading you to your disillusion. It was in suffering that I loved you. I knew it then, and you will know it now. My heart was filled by your presence. Now you are far away, and I am empty again. I knew that I could never keep you. I gave you everything that I could in the moments that we were together. That was true, that was real. That is all that we can ever really hold onto. This knowledge of what we once had, the faith that it can and will come again. Not me, not you. What passed between us. What is passing from the base of my navel through my wind-pipe on the disposition of my tongue through the arrangement of my lips. What is flowing from the tip of my spine across the spaces of nerve endings to my fingers.
I loved you. And when I see you again,
I will love her too.


Author: manderson

I live in NYC.

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