I miss her. I always miss her. I miss her love–I miss her companionship. But more than anything, I miss the way she made me feel.

Invincible. Intelligent. Incendiary.

Sometimes I wonder if I am actually those things, or if she falsely saw them in me. Or perhaps I just thought she thought those things about me.

Whatever I was, we were never enough together. I thought we could conquer the world together. Sometimes I think the 3rd time’s a charm.

She’s coming to see me in a couple weeks. I can’t seem to say “no”.

Poetry. We used to spend hours on the phone reading poetry to each other–we were beautiful, and tender, and giddy. It’s one of the only times my mind turned off-when she was reading to me.

 

Morning in the Burned House–Margaret Atwood

“In the burned house I am eating breakfast.You understand: there is no house, there is no breakfast, yet here I am. The spoon which was melted scrapes against the bowl which was melted also. No one else is around. Where have they gone to, brother and sister, mother and father? Off along the shore, perhaps. Their clothes are still on the hangers, their dishes piled beside the sink, which is beside the woodstove with its grate and sooty kettle, every detail clear, tin cup and rippled mirror. The day is bright and songless, the lake is blue, the forest watchful. In the east a bank of cloud rises up silently like dark bread. I can see the swirls in the oilcloth, I can see the flaws in the glass, those flares where the sun hits them. I can’t see my own arms and legs or know if this is a trap or blessing, finding myself back here, where everything in this house has long been over, kettle and mirror, spoon and bowl, including my own body, including the body I had then, including the body I have now as I sit at this morning table, alone and happy, bare child’s feet on the scorched floorboards (I can almost see) in my burning clothes, the thin green shorts and grubby yellow T-shirt holding my cindery, non-existent, radiant flesh. Incandescent.”

(One of her favorites. Who am I? Burning, or already burnt?)

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2 thoughts on “Love, or Longing

  1. Ah the burning house analogy…. Sigh.

    Your post with its Atwood inclusion made me realize something *he* said to me yesterday, during an early morning conversation: “We burned down the house.” He never used metaphor so well before. I was always the one, being the writer.

    I didn’t realize it until I read your post. He was referencing a song vlog I posted; me singing John Mayer’s “Slow Dancing In A Burning Room.”

  2. Thank you for the solidarity, friend. Even after a couple years, I still sometimes feel nervous about the *she* reference.

    I love the analogy he made. It’s a statement of finality–but of hope, and of rebirth.

    Love much 😉

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