When I met him, a prisoner’s attempt to break free.
My relationship. His deniability.
He was so forward the night we met.
Terrifying.
Couldn’t see he was teetering on the brink just to kiss me.
For Josh – Who’s kiss I’ll never forget, who’s random phone calls haunt me to this day and who still has plenty of magic (even if “The Magician” doesn’t recognize it as such).
I scrawled this in my notebook on the train sometime last week and just got around to transcribing it here. I hope it finds you well.
When I can’t think – When I can’t remember – Can’t write –
I tell myself it’s enough to breathe, dress, leave, walk, ride.
And when I’m lucky something connects like a stranger’s kiss – an excitement fumbling towards inspiration through shock treatment lust or cold water dread traveling / taking me to where I always wish to be.
I write of nothing desperate to not lose what I once believed and forgot and was only reminded of on special occasions like birthdays, anniversaries or when he fucked that goth metalhead drag queen in Budapest.
I write so often that I sometimes can’t meet other writers as I’m far too busy writing.
I read this for the others as the time ticks away after verses and compliments and a shared glimmer in the eyes of strangers.
Really, it was more like I knew people who knew him; an acquaintance.
I thought him straight but kind, possibly manipulative, but when I saw another turn his head I knew that I had been mistaken.
Perhaps he was confused… Perhaps I was confused…
Even when involved with a man I knew, I didn’t quite believe it.
He was like a vision of youth and culture and ideas relating to things and places I didn’t have access to, beyond his possible longing, his desire for his own gender.
The night that he drunkenly kissed me was flattering and insulting all at once.
I gained no access, you see, and though his lust was honest and the way his eyes met mine left little doubt that I was attractive to him, I’ve never quite convinced myself that he wasn’t seeking to make my friend jealous.
I’m no longer friends with the man who had been his lover; nor have I been such for nearly two decades…
I wonder what ever became of this man who glistened in the background of my life.
His dark hair and the way his smile made his eyes dance…
Gustavo.
I stumble for his name in the car as Aaron and I listen to “Giovanni’s Room”.
I hope he came to a better end; he deserved at least that much…
I thought his name beautiful and a fitting word to match his twilit lambent contradiction of a smile.
If he lives, I doubt he has spared me a second thought.
My eyes have been burning I dream they are bleeding allergic reaction to book I am reading I’ve read it before but it’s still just as haunting: an honest admission of hardship and wanting excerpts of life which echo my own reflected in eyes of men that I’ve known moment and whisper the sound of my breathing the fall of a zipper where wanting is needing the touch of a stranger or the thrill of a glance safety and danger of an old circumstance that creams little death under weight of his stare wet dreams made flesh as our souls are laid bare in each conversation and every discourse each revelation is beyond intercourse as we come together in solace (like marriage) his is a volume I always will cherish.
innocence amorous virtuous sensuous yearn and return repressed stream of consciousness permissible trips stain his kissable lips and he ghosts the tips lest his secret life slips on a dissonant grace obsessed across nations his innocent face is repressed revelation disapproval incurred by his indiscretion a removal of words is that a confession deletion implies there was something to hide you complete the affair when the truth is denied is message deleted admission of guilt this lesson repeated by tears that are spilt
