Je t'aime.

This may seem cruel, but the reiteration is so present in my dreaming, that it has sealed me with a pain forever apparent. I tell the story now, as a means of escaping the anchor of your gaze, which is a modicum of execrable moroseness. In fact, the melancholy looms in the flight of the libellula genus. 

The stormy ephemeron of our relationship, bled something of ginger root, leaving me with opinions often bitter, but at the same time, non-judging. You can examine this closer, if you shut your eyes and look at the actions you haven’t been able to take. —The inner complexities are what very well ruin.

It was the night we got back by train and your willingness to kiss me was something of a passing fate. The anxiety of the day, resulted in a tense facial conclusion — one in which the eyes snarled back dead and in disharmony with the snake of the lips, and the hopping pulsation of each dirty nostril.

You were baked red and your arms never extended along the depths of my skin, like when my path spread with your own, while the mark of this journey, was in the movement of the automobile, the busy disease you let kill you. 

Your apartment was no home for me. Instead it was a temporary bookshelf where I played key author. What was missing though was my identity. I was a textbook of nothingness and yet, still, Henry Miller knew of my many secrets.

There in your cauldron, you mixed monotonous persuasion with the subtle routine of avocado sandwiches and frequent television. There was of course the daily affirmation of the parental sort, when you walked your dog down the neck of one street, only stopping twice for the excretion and the collective re-balance of your energies. It was then perhaps, that we spoke extra timid.

The fingers tapped keys with knowing. I was in bed while you worked through the writing of something integral. “Read this, you’ll like it,” you offered vaguely.

The book was small and thin. I had the capacity of swallowing it quick, because I was hungry for some kind of acknowledgment, some sort of attention. I submitted to your judgement though. I knew you spoke the truth. I knew this so much, my ability to cry, swam freely. “Yeah, okay”, I said.

John Darnielle is someone of great heat. His words carry sharks. There is the biting intensity. This showed in the book. The juvenile stories of a teenager, spiraled towards the sudden, and impulsive nature of a well-informed adult.

The kid was caged like me. He fought the fire by writing out letters. He wrote and wrote, only to be rejected and ignored. And this is the case with us now. There is something that swells. You feel this and turn off the already dull noise.

The book was a foreshadowing, darling.

When I finished it two hours later, you inquired, “Well?”

“It was good, yes.” I had said.

“See, I knew it. I knew.”

And oh my god, you were right.