pensées

He has given me many warm hugs. And he has taught me much good wisdom. That is surely enough.

He would have been a very devoted lover, shy, and loyal for that. And I could never have loved him back.

He was obviously hurt and made more bitter, surely, by me.

Things aren't easy.

but there is a point at which they will do, enough, for now, and it's okay to let go of them.

How to listen, how to listen.

It seems to me like you have to come at these things aslant, secretively, from a hidden angle.

He is more quiet and smiles less. It is hard. Things are hard.

I thought he had found a way to happiness. It's hard to watch someone find out that that's not the case. It's hard to see someone you'd thought had it figured out come across the same complex problems as us all. How best to love each other? Maybe that's the guiding question of a life.

I remember most his stomach, not insincere, because he is perhaps incapable of any great deceit. Yes, his stomach was sincere.

We did not hold hands very much. These were the conditions.

looks like I'm taking a smoke break between sets behind a bar.

It had words and colors with it, I am trying to remember- yellow brittle brown pale yellow splintery black thin lines- something like that the pain was. like a splintery impression of...

His hair was slightly different. And later, with my hands in it, soft.

He said some things. Only a few. He is simple, yellow.

That was at the end, though, he leaned and looked up at me, ready to go, asking, I never know why they do, if I am okay.

I saw the purple where his eyelashes met his eyelids.

Yes, that sentence seems imaginary.

I challenged him with my eyes.

In the dark his silhouette was artistic, archetypical, beautiful.

The sun was coming out. The iron spikes of sunlight. It hurt red.

I need their thoughts to fill the space where mine aren't.

I told him, “You have no special obligation to me.” They never do.

Concerning these matters, the language breaks apart.

Perhaps it was all yellow.

I respect him more and more. It would be nice to be beautiful, and not be lied to.

I think I only enjoy this in retrospect. Strangely.

It was quite generic. He put his hand sometimes in my hair.

It is so hard to say the true thing, isn't it? Words seem insincere when they aim to express sincerity.

It makes me feel powerful. It makes me want to play. There is this, too, though- I want to give...

Oppressed by the eyes.

We wish into the daylight hours, we wish into the minds of others.

Here is a man who thinks me not quite repulsive. Here is a day not quite hopeless. He is a world not quite beautiful.