Suddenly out of reach

Shadows fill my mind up
Zeroes tell me my time’s up
I lost count so long ago;  maybe my heart’s numb
Don’t hold my hands accountable; they’re young and they’re dumb
Drive through the timezones
Escape out of my mind zone, love
I lost you not long ago; heaven knows I’m miserable
Hell takes all the credit, though, til the day is done
The emotion is suddenly out of me
The emotion is building up inside of me
And what you’re looking for is suddenly out of reach
The emotion, the emotion
Islands under eyelids
Spilling in through the silence
You were all that, all that, all that I needed
And we’re falling, falling to the deep end now
The emotion is suddenly out of me
The emotion is building up inside of me
And what you’re looking for is suddenly out of reach
The emotion, the emotion
Rolling through the dark
Carved into the light of day
Both eyes are open now, I’m running
I won’t turn around for you
The emotion is suddenly out of me
The emotion is building up inside of me
And what you’re looking for is suddenly out of reach
The emotion, the emotion

BØRNS, The Emotion


I connect with this song on a spiritual level. Listening to it on repeat, it’s as if grainy Polaroid snapshots from the most vulnerable moments in my life were paper-clipped to the pages of the lined notebook where it was so beautifully composed. Several verses run through me like maddening, melodic prophecies. A parallel version of me.

Musically, it swirls like a warm breeze inside my emotional landscapes. I close my eyes and the velvet chords pluck away at my senses. I sing along breathlessly. The corners of my lips tremble as the octaves rise and fall out of me. The words reverberate inside the walls of my lungs. The bitter and the sweet in a most unimaginable harmony inside my everything.

Perhaps, most importantly, this song… This incredible piece of sonic art. It captures something fluid and vital that I so uniquely and desperately lack. Something I lost.

The emotion.

Unapologetic attraction. Chemical echolocation. To exist. To exist for someone, to anyone. To be wanted. Seen. To be a woman who is given permission to feel…. the emotion. I realized some time ago that I will never actually exist, for him. There was once a time I really wanted to, needed to.

I am here (I think?) but I am not autonomous. A magicians assistant consumed with contemplation by this unexpectedly empty existence. The injustice of it all. I designed the tricks. My sleight of hand is what makes the magic of our life happen. He gets all the credit, all the applause, for contributing absolutely nothing to this performance besides showing up. And he doesn’t even want the fame.

The memories. Our daughters sweet, belly laughter. The holidays and birthday parties. Each and every single framed photo and canvas adorning the walls of this sunlit starved house, chosen by me. I have decorated our home and our life. Endlessly. I water the garden. I read the bedtime stories. All with the same intricate, sentimental, exhaustive approach I take to writing…

My poetry. He never reads my poetry. Unless he’s looking for hidden motives, character betrayals, or to pacify my now faded cries for some semblance of affection. I ache for some kind of recognition. Some…. sign of life in us. I used to search for it obsessively. And yet… I still wake smoldering and unsatisfied. Every. Single. Day. Our vows feel like eulogies.

Did you read the poem?”


What did you think?”

“It’s good.”

“What did it make you feel?”

“Not sure. Still processing it.”

“Okay but… you liked it?”


Sure. Long since abandoned flirtations have faded to unfamiliar, almost alien recollections. At some point I just stopped trying. Rejection has an unspoken shelf life and if I had to swallow one more hollow excuse I was going to swan dive off the Golden Gate.

I can’t remember how another tongue feels flicking lightly against my own anymore. I catch the occasional passing glance from men on the street and shared between characters in a fleeting moment in films. That look. The one that says … if you would let me I would lay you down right here, right where we stand, and I would ruin every inch of your body. I promise. That’s how badly I want you.

When I unintentionally recognize that connection between two people, on the television or at the gas station, the suppressed memories come rushing back to me. I briefly relive those moments. The many, many times I have shared that dirty, amazing gaze with lovers (and strangers) from across the room, in a blurry, painfully distant past.

Pupils dilating. The hot rush of chemical lust. The mutual craving. Aching with anticipation. Counting the hours on the clock until we could get our hands on each other again. Synthesis. Trust. A resulting sleep so…. tranquil.

I loved to analyze and guess exactly what someone was intending to do to me based on the expression on his face during that state… just how far we’d allow it take us, and knowing I was going to love every single fucking second. A little game I’ve long since forgotten how to play.

But during this flood of intoxicating memory, I also simultaneously realize how long it’s been. How futile this is. The tepidness of our sheets. I silently ask myself if he’s ever looked at me like that… I don’t think he has. Has he?

I know he hasn’t.

So, out of pure instinct, I lock away the longings, the deserving… and bury it somewhere impenetrable inside myself. It’s simply torture, after all. A coping mechanism against the endless physical deprivation of domestic “bliss”. Those memories are handled ever so carefully, like lace lingerie, flammable liquid, and vintage family photographs. Stored in my hearts hope(less) chest to gather dust and be consumed by moths.

The emotion.

Suddenly…. out of reach.







a. duncan, 2017

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Amor et melle et felle est fecundissimus || Love is rich with both honey and venom

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