Magpie 113

i see everything but in the end, it’s only about two.  the way you said something reminded me of that first time we spoke where everything was as it should be. i was laughing in your arms and yet seeing nothing until that day where you questioned everything.  i saw tombstones and bloody hearts and forced myself to look up, to be who i am, to insist on the reality of who i was. your heart sat, underground, searching, swearing up and down it would not feel.  yet as we said, it is clear when you say my name that you know me, and it is clear when i close my eyes that i know you.  the gray of the day and the blue of the light take me in circles – yes, you do, yes, you are, yes, it is.  there are organs and veins and rooms with bright lights that for once, dammit for once will be opening our days, our summer, our winter.  whether i see you in the stars or in the clouds, i have seen more in my life than ever could stop me from loving you.  when i flow through the woods, i know you have worlds to show that i’ve yet to imagine. it keeps me warm, those camellias and orchids and tulips collected over a distance we never could have envisioned.  you are always alive in my blood.  when i cut myself you drip down my arm, you sting, you are warm, you are inside of me.  the way things have been i don’t know other words, i don’t know a linear way to say how i need you.  i am no longer small.  (please, kiss me clearly).

“One must learn to love.— This is what happens to us in music: first one has to learn to hear a figure and melody at all, to detect and distinguish it, to isolate it and delimit it as a separate life; then it requires some exertion and good will to tolerate it in spite of its strangeness, to be patient with its appearance and expression, and kindhearted about its oddity:—finally there comes a moment when we are used to it, when we wait for it, when we sense that we should miss it if it were missing: and now it continues to compel and enchant us relentlessly until we have become its humble and enraptured lovers who desire nothing better from the world than it and only it. But that is what happens to us not only in music: that is how we have learned to love all things that we now love. In the end we are always rewarded for our good will, our patience, fairmindedness, and gentleness with what is strange; gradually, it sheds its veil and turns out to be a new and indescribable beauty:—that is its thanks for our hospitality. Even those who love themselves will have learned it in this way: for there is no other way. Love, too, has to be learned.” ― Friedrich Nietzsche


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