March 2009

In the questions you ask me, there’s an empty space where your understanding should be. 


Of course I don’t worry about tomorrow. I don’t worry about next week or next year, either. I don’t worry about them anymore than I worry about a plane crashing into my house as I sleep, or my leg suddenly developing a mind of it’s own, detaching itself and galloping towards the sun, glad to finally be free of this body, flawed and angry as it is. 


I don’t worry about tomorrow, and I wish you wouldn’t either. Tomorrow is always nothing but a maybe while today stares at you screaming yes. Yes yes yes. Yes. Now. Yes. This. This is now and I am happening and we are here and today, yes, yes, yes. 


I don’t worry about what could be, and I don’t worry about tomorrow and while there are a million tiny concerns buried under my skin aching to dig a tunnel through me to my face and voice, I realize, always, that there is no sense in thinking of what could be. Be here, be with what is, be with me now and let tomorrow be a concern when it becomes today.


I’ll marry you tonight, but I won’t wear a ring.

It’s not what you think. It’s not how you’re thinking of it at all.

I just don’t want us to be a question that can be answered. I can’t stand the thought of us that way, dry and dead in some dictionary of love. I can’t see us defined so.

Put both of your hands here, across where your picture of my heart is, hold them there and you’ll have the only part of the puzzle that matters. You can take that piece of me and carry it in the palm of your hand, where it will live in a language only we know.