Finger Mountains (Valentine's Day)

Dear You, without You, Artist

I’m sitting on a coach in forbidden lands, a little outside Scarsdale, with The Artist on me, looking into me. We’re about to leave and we don’t know it. The moment has its own color, something like blue-green or chasmic (which isn’t a real color, but it should be). The Artist and I will fall now, into the moment’s color and each other. Maybe it’s the heat. It must be the heat that makes us melt together, because this recreation has a warm soothing feeling to it. Or maybe it was what The Artist said, “Don’t analyze, just feel.”

The world is about to change, and it’s right as The Artist lay still next to me, and as I gravitate toward the window seal. But then I know. The world is about to change. And my hands grip her and pull her in, and my legs fumble about, sweat drips, breathing labors, but it’s all in my head. Did The Artist feel that embrace, did she feel my hands running down her side, hoping to chase my mind down, around, over those valleys and mountains? Probably not, but I felt, I didn’t think. I felt in the dark, and the moment was red-pink, but perhaps her moment was just black.

And now here I am, after an event that may or may not have happened. She is miles away from me, I am miles away from me. So here we are, feeling! Not thinking. Is feeling enough though? Would thorny flowers with golden stems and giant pedals express or substitute the feeling? But that’s just thinking. Well, The Artist is miles away, sick, and I’m confused, and the feeling confuses the thinking, so please excuse this.


Thanks,
Him, or a part of Him, New Guy

And Now I’m sitting, and the world has changed. She’s gone. Not just miles away this time, but gone gone. Gone with a text not much better than “It’s not you, it’s me.” The finger mountains are gone, the color is gone, gray is here, feeling is here. But I’m screaming to myself “DISSOCIATE!” But the dissociation properties suck, and the gray makes me think I suck. Finger mountains are all I have now that that world is gone, on Valentine’s Day. But the colors melt with me now still, and gray just doesn’t rub off. Maybe it just won’t rub off. Whatever. Cliché, you and I are one.