In Times Which Seem Like Self-Psychotherapy He Says To Himself:
This morning my poem begins:
How I love you
With you so so far away
How I pull you close
I was smiling as I plucked away at these words, slimming them down, drawing them out, expanding them to try for greater clarity, finally returning to the simple, minimal view. Then I heard the Guillemots singing of love; that Fyfe Dangerfield flooding through Made up Lovesong #43, yet he sang that after I had penned my words, I beg of you to remember that.
I read somewhere; only to write when you have something to write; I read somewhere else, always to write, start writing and then the story will come to you. My poetry follows the former, my Story follows the latter, my You words fall somewhere in between.
Last week, during meditation practice, I said how good it feels to pull on a clean white cotton shirt of a Saturday morning. Someone asked me why? My partner was there so I couldn’t say it was because of you, instead I said it was because of memories of good times in the past.
Clothing is important for me. I feel good with good clothing. I felt good when you had good clothing, although you had style whatever you wore. I had a really neat experience buying you lingerie, I wrote a poem, which even today fills me with joy; you might find it somewhere if you search google for: I stare in the window a gleam in my eye.
Such fun when the barriers between buyer and seller are removed, such amusement when the conversation becomes more than just the routine questions and the formulaic answers.
Unfortunately I don’t believe the gift was quite what you wanted; I hope you didn’t believe that the corset was any reflection on your body shape, it most certainly wasn’t. I rather suppose it was me feeling that I had the freedom to live out a fantasy; perhaps I misread the absoluteness, did I miscalculate the certainty of our relationship.
While I accept that I often fell into silence I don’t recall you telling me that you didn’t care for my…