You Are Coming Back
There’s been a murder! Of the senses, and like the oil in the drenched towel, like the murmuring glass that screams shattered, like the castle that’s been burned to the ground six times and rebuilt for a seventh time in the seventh day under the guise of the seventh star, you are back, and the world can change at last.
But when I look at you, you are not the same, but you are also not different. Instead, you are a reflection of me, because it is only through my eyes that I see you and feel you and understand tat you are never going to be the memory I wish you were. Such is life! A disappointment, followed by an unworldly sensation of acceptance as good as swallowing poison, and then an eternal self delusion, first from the nose, to the eyes, to the taste buds, that I, and you, am accepting the new course. I am happy, if I must, and I have to accept death, and sickness, and deception, as they slowly succumb to the whirring thoughts in me. Yes, you came back, instantly there is a glow of happiness, then a dimness like no other, you can’t even explain it, so distant, and I am such a burden to myself.
You like that, don’t you, which is why I don’t like you, which is why you wouldn’t like me when I end up liking you, but if you are back again, with the murderous glee, with the smile of the demented, then all will be fine. I believe it so in the deepest of my guts, and I am acting accordingly with a little pat to the head, and also by saying that little word that you like so much. But I am loved, in strange ways, and you are so much ready to love, though you want to kill somebody, which is perfectly ordinary, and none at all trite for me, who receives the news and then lies down expecting it. You know the thing! The thing that makes you you, and the thing that makes me me, the juju and the meme, the little heart that unites, but not inuison, but in the song of a universe. Does that make sense?
The murder, the murder at last, which is bound to happen, but in the consumption, there is something else. You came back for me, and only me, and I waited for you, and only you, that is enough, not to settle things, but to simmer them down, like a wingless bird, like a kite without its string, like a bike without handles, it slows and slows, and finally stumbles pitifully, an expected occurrence, perhaps even a funny one, and then, the end, or rather the beginning of something completely different. I want to have you again, and you can have me again, if you do the thing, and think the thought, and endure the pain, the pain of knowing you, but the pleasure of understanding you. It is beautiful, but it is me.