Picture yourself here ^
Vintage Ralph Lauren
I want to cry about how slim his hips were
how all dogs were “puppies”
the way he looked when I surprised him with some small joy
the way I looked watching him go, and not knowing he was going.
Once he pressed me up against my window
and the clanking of the shade against the glass was overwhelmingly
distracting, being so at odds with how careful and quiet
200 years ago the world was quieter
even in the wilderness, which lacked the white noises
we hear without hearing, like men we love without realizing,
like a silence defined by its disruption.
Even one plane overhead seems more real
than the voicemail I leave for the man with slim hips
who went like a buzz through the trees
and disquieted them.
In all the farewells in all the airports in all the profane dawns.
In the Fiat with no documents on the road to Madrid. At the
Corrida. In the Lope de Vega, the Annalena, the Jerome. In time
past, time lost, time yet to pass. In poetry. In watery deserts, on
arid seas, between desserts and seas. In sickness and in health. In
pain and in the celebration of pain. In the delivery room. In the
garden. In the hammock under the aspen. In all the emergencies. In
the waterfall. In toleration. In retaliation. In rhyme. Among cherry
blossoms blowing in wet, blowing snow, weren’t we something?”
Jean-Michel Basquiat — Formless (1983)