With loves like these who needs art
With loves like these who needs art

The soft beauty of the harsh landscape unfolds like a surrealist kiss, rolling, expectant, lasting. Horizon line proceeds beyond horizon line, ever building upon each other as far as the eye can see. The foreign voice cries in my ear, filling my mind with dripping glories of dead histories and loves that were never consummated. Crying, lilting, lifting to nothing and letting go. You have time to let go.

It was a lifetime ago.
He shared his notes with her. It was all he had to offer. His thoughts, rough and naked and uncensored. She ate them up ravenously and asked for more.
“On what topic?” he said.
“The only topic.”
She bit the air expectantly.
“Ah. Love. Yes. I don’t have thoughts on that anymore. I just piece together what’s left into a whole until I feel okay.”
“But you had thoughts, so many thoughts. I touched them, read them.”
She raised her hand.
“Yes, but that was a lifetime ago and I was a young man then. That was before I knew things, only thought I knew things. Creative. Sleepiness like dust settling in the still air. I won’t be long for this world. Do not cry or weep for this used up old man. There is more I can feel now than you will ever understand. Be with me.”
“I love you too,” she said.

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