Ivory
April
I.
The ends we make. Ends that happen.
Doors by the riverside.
Places left open, naked, stunning. People we loved.
Finale.
I feel self-weary. Because of brevity. Because of ruin. Partial denouements that crawl across the earth.
Damage. Security. Pressure on the diaphragm.
This kinship of being destructible. Predestined. Organic. Our entanglements are inevitable. They coalesce. Touch like water. Your designs and mine. Forays into blood loss.
How to breathe. Exhaust each other. Wipe the mess from your skin.
I understand. But it will change you.
I have no relationship with renewal. I bear what I have been.
These striations are the truth.
II.
Daylight fades. People crash. They are symbolic. Compositions of free flesh, death, and vibrancy. Constellations of interest. Of pity. We relate to their tears. Greet their sun. Their lack. Till the wounds. Ache for ourselves. Ache what there is to ache.
Mechanics of untouchable matter.
You have your name. All the dark you slip from. Wistful beginnings. Enduring years.
Others to bind you.
Still, you want peace. Ivory peaks. High mercy in a gentle dusk.
You want acceptance.
Honour of this place. This low harbour. The pain we inhabit.
But you don’t have the forgiveness.
"It grows smaller, contracts as it declines, and now the end makes one with the beginning. Following this gold spot with my eyes I think I would accept--even if I had to risk death, lose a fortune, a friend--to live it all over again, in the same circumstances, from end to end. But an adventure never returns nor is prolonged."
Jean-Paul Sartre, Nausea