Honesty 31.03.017

Do you remember how we fell in love?

Let me tell you.

This is exactly how it went:

It was the first of the year.

I had trudged through the thick and bitter air—

past a graveyard, over slabs of ice whorled like marble,

thick and unforgiving underfoot—

to traverse a mile or so

in a city so unfamiliar to me.

I'd had no sleep,

barely any,

and my body felt thick and aguey.

No pocket-held device to guide me—

my path was planned the day before,

from one unfamiliar city dwelling to another

(I repeated the street names and turns in an endless stream,

the chatter-and-babble the beads of my rosary,

my hangover the blackened, nail-varnished crucifix),

and then I arrived at your door.

Back then, I’d had no knowledge of complexes and lobbies;

door ajar, I walked right in, no need to buzz though my head was humming,

and ascended the stairs, entirely unaccustomed to elevators from the forties.

(to this day— as I write—
I still cannot stop counting:
mumbled numbers a mantra, so soothing)

I knocked, more unsure than not.

Locks turned and clicked, your face

(your face, only) presenting

itself from behind dark mahogany.

A bit of surprise for mine arrival unannounced, but then:
warm smile, insides melting and running like butter; a welcome to the warmth within.

[Flash Forward]

We lay on your bed, bathing in the sun:

faces half-buried in blankets,

eyes meeting only for moments,

but with intention,

and for the first time

(in four-and-a-half-years, but for once let’s stop counting)—

and like pendulums swinging, every arc growing

shorter exponentially: our eyes held those moments,
meetings, longer with each ling'ring sweep of the lash...

[no, wait, go back]

We discuss our New Year’s Eves,
smiles disproportionate to our monumental hangovers,

our gladness at this presence of the moment

betraying attempts at civil small-talk.

I decide I need a shower

(because I want to be naked near you),

but we opt for breakfast first. Again,
I brave the cold, but with you to lead the way.

[Flash Forward]

Your apartment: a humidor of uncovered South-facing windows and unobscured January sky,
thick and dreamy with the fumes of oil paint curing.

Your bathroom door— unhinged, and baking in the rays—
is receiving its treatment, so I disrobe without any protection, though—

like a gentleman—

you sequester yourself to the opposite side of the room, 

lest your eyes or your feet wander where thou wilt not

(in here, with me, I want you).

The water washes away the grease, the sweat

of a night I am glad to have gone from me.

I wonder if you are looking—

your curtain is but a projection screen, upon which my darker self plays.

I know I cannot rightfully ask anything of you.

You were with Him last night.

I must neither tempt, nor intrude.

[no, wait, go back— please, let me go back]

Imagine a diaphanous veil of light, the lulling
hush of your radiator hissing;

gilded silence falling about your ears;

your body draped in amniotic warmth;

promises of the primordial sea;

the Zero-pointe:

No crucifixes, no Hail Marys.

No numbers, no counting, no
seconds marking moments passing.

Just a moment.
Breathe in.
Golden.

[go back]

Do you remember the moment we fell in love?

Let me tell you:

You lay at the head of the bed, crosswise. On your right side.

I lay at the foot, on my left, my eyes meeting yours, unwavering.

Perhaps, for the very first time, I was fully honest, fully present;

the first time fully in the sun’s light is harrowing.

In the bright white of your room:
the thrum of bloodmuscles pumping
in time; as-yet unaligned, though still
a sensation mutually-felt.

You reached out and fingered

the silver snakeskin bracelet

encircling my wrist.

You asked me a question— I answered it.

Your fingers did not leave, but rested.

Delicate.

Had I too made the band of silver adorning my finger?

No, I said. It was the work of my brother.

Silver is for protection.

We could not,

we did not want,

to further fill this silence.

The tether of beryl green

meeting muted blue

pulled us still closer,

and I met your hand

with my hand;

soft.

We drew nearer the moment,

careful of these fragile tangents:

adjacent axes-- asymptotes, each

approaching
Zero
infinitely;

your arms now around me

the scent of you a cloak

enrobing a moment never to forget— — —

In the heady high of anticipation, there was found a dream encased in glass.

...

...

...

Eighty-two days. I awoke.
In a cocktail of paint fumes and Burberry:
my head swimming, my heart quite thick.