The encounter

She had have never encountered anyone like him.

She would fill endless notebooks with stories about the characters in her life, their impressions, words, friends, lovers, inspirations, fantasies. She spent her days dreaming up worlds where they fit together in visions; the if only, the never again, the someday. A proud woman of words, she now confessed in a small leather diary that she could not capture him in language.

I am capable of forgiveness, perhaps to a fault. But the question is not, can I forgive you, it’s should I? I will not hold onto the anger and frustration, because ultimately that gives you some kind of power over how I feel and we both know damn well that you have proven yourself  unworthy of such things.”

Those who knew her best would describe her as a creature with a clear and sometimes painful sense of herself; furious with ideas and convictions, to a point that she frightened men away with discernment and a relentless strength of character. This man was her opposite, disguising himself from one moment to the next, presenting sides of his temperament out of convenience and concern for neutrality. And oh, how her words bled onto the pages of that notebook.

You hide beneath the camouflage of intoxication. I tried to expose the fraud of exhibition and chemical courage that has ruled you for so long. Indulgence removes you from the visceral experience of my touch and the inevitable responsibility for your feelings.

Your affection wears gloves and your love is a lingering sigh against a pane of glass.  My smell is removed in the wash, my condensation will fade by morning. Out of fear or neglect, you conceal the scars of conflict and confusion from the prying eyes of the crowd, keeping a tangible space in between.

You… simply…. escape me. You evade my understanding. You shift from one intensity to another, effortlessly. This is the only way that I know how to describe you, an admittance of my calm and gorgeous confusion with everything that you are; a restless, complicated presence convincing the world that he is content and simple. I cannot explain a man who cannot explain himself, nor can I ever.

A caterpillar once said… Who are you?

Bravo, you are the only man who has ever… rendered me speechless.

 

a.duncan 2016

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"She would fill endless notebooks with stories about the characters in her life, their impressions, words, friends, lovers, inspirations, fantasies. She spent her days dreaming up worlds where they fit together in visions; the if only, the never again, the someday. Those who knew her best would describe her as a creature with a clear and sometimes painful sense of herself; furious with ideas and convictions, to a point that she frightened love away with discernment and a relentless strength of character."

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