One button, tuppence away.
Remembering the weight of you,
Our 4 a.m. finesses.
Stillness and flaring recognition,
So much to share
Sheltered within the canopy of your arms.
But I'm new here,
Will you show me around.
And two things from John Berger that I want to share with you, just because.
According to whether we are in the same place or separated from one another, I know you twice. There are two of you.
When you are away, you are nevertheless present for me. This presence is multiform: it consists of countless images, passages, meanings, things known, landmarks, yet the whole remains marked by your absence, in that it is diffuse. If is as if your person becomes a place, your contours horizons. I live in you then like living in a country. You are everywhere. Yet in that country I can never meet you face to face.
In the country which is you I know your gestures, the intonations of your voice, the shape of every part of your body. You are not physically less real there, but you are less free.
What changes when you are there before my eyes is that you become unpredictable. What you are about to do is unknown to me. I follow you. You act. And with what you do, I fall in love again.
How to measure
the calendar of your absence?
How to measure
of my tangled light
in the mountain
of what has been
and what will be?
The balance is never made.
Yet in the night your eyes and mine
sounding one another
show no trace of vertigo.