for C. JoyBell C.
She said. I found lately that I have little to say to you. That this space I thought we took up in the universe was created entirely from my imagination. And an image of who I was and who you are, and what we were to each other. I have found that surrounding that idea is nothing but spaces and your silence and the unrelenting need to keep me at bay, when all I ever wanted was to want you. I also found that what I thought was love was merely a projection of something else entirely. Have you ever heard Plato’s allegory of the cave? This is us.
So I spent years dragging around, making room for this need, in all the cities I lived and in all the jobs I took, and the subways and the bus rides and the train stations, and the small strange towns in mountain cities and the big bustling streets of Los Angeles. I always made the space to be sure the love I had for you could come to. I would turn to it in times of need and in times of no need, and while I was happy or sad or wanted to share something with someone, because sometimes the world is nothing but big and lonely and then even bigger.
And if I had a glass of wine for every time I claimed to cast this love aside I would be a drunk while I write these words. For there seems to be no amount of time or promise that can force my hand in this manner. And I realize that as I make this statement now, it is destined to be just that. For it changes nothing, aside for my desire to shed you. But I write this in the vein of the advice of C. JoyBell C. ”