I have conquered a man least conqureable. But I also know the limits of my power, and I know what it takes to answer the demands of him.
He has loved me; I am his love. I have had all I could have of him, the most secret layers of his being, such words, such feelings, such looks, such caressess... I have felt him exultant in my love, passionate, possessive, jealous. I have grown on him, not bodily, but like a vision. What does he remember so vividly of our moments together?
That afternoon. That afternoon when he was taken by the sense of living in a fairy tale, with a veil between himself and me. Me the very real. The very Me. And the very him.
I crave for him. Only him. I want to live with him, be free with him, suffer with him. Phrases from his letter haunt me. Yet I have doubts about our love. I fear my impetuosity. I follow him with my soul, I enter into his feelings as he wanders through his wide streets, I partake of his breathing, his desires. I think his thoughts
Everything in us is
You are not lying to me? You are all I feel you are. Do not decieve me. My love is too new, too absolute, too deep.
....and all that and much much much more he knew.... but he forgets. More than anyone on this earth, he saw... but he denies. Deeper than myself he entered, ....but he pulls back. In fear. Or in scare. In selfishness. Or in sacrifice. For his own reasons, he did it all.
And it is deep down that I never really blame. Or get upset. Or even think of revenge. He is the only one who does change my core nature. Has a power
. And I wonder why? I know why.
But it is torturing me. Cutting through me to the core. By the second. And yet, I never broke a promise or run with the slimmest thought away from him. Even in the deepest moment of despair, I whisper him and Him. I galloped to him but he is never to be found. Hiding under his cloack. Defending himself aganist everyone. Even me? Refusing to see. Even me? Stalling to move. Even to me?
And even him, he does not know, or maybe does not imagine or believe. His depth in me. I thought he knew. Was sure he knew. His existence within me. I thought he recognized. Was sure he recognized. His completeness in me. I thought we both realized. His ancient soul recognized mine. But, ah, maybe he does not know. Had he really known, recognized, or realised.... everything would have been different......
every word would have been different....every gesture would have been to include, to embrace....to assure that a carrefour had not been entered.
But what does he know!
But then again....did he ever know?
Can I express my pain? Is that
what you call pain? Is that
what you call express?
And I leave him to be whatever. He will remain my child after all. And I know he has no one but me.
*H or *J or even *C.... how will it ever matter...
But.... he will still ask. still trace. still brush his J-spot. still doubt. still search.
he will not trust. and
me to trust. me
? I trust. I saw
, and trust. I was in pain
, and trust. I watched
silently, and trust.
and you still want me to talk about choices
? acrynoms? letters?
who stood by the door and who entered to the core?