Intellectual Stimulation

I spent an hour this afternoon at Phillipe's house
Where spices are in mason jars and the tea mugs are hand-thrown
Snow in the driveway means it was a slippery journey
And we sit on the couch discussing writing

I am across from Judy, and it's her piece we're gnoshing
What does it mean?
And what is the real context here?
And when you say "he was my lover..." [is that permanent]

[maybe - we've been together 9 years now - but it didn't feel like that then]

I sip tea like there is never going to be another cup of it
"Mild caffeine?", Phillipe says, as the kettle squeals and his lover wanders through on a cell phone conference call meeting wearing women's leggings and running shoes:

[he reminds me of a centaur and I can't help staring]

I want to feel this way always
Incessant longing but able to spill it over and into and throughout the room
Longing for meaning and anticipating the filling of all my holes like pudding and more solid objects: round hard cylinders...

Conversation is sexual with artists.

The Darkest Hours

Portrait of you
Painting on my skin
4AM
Painting with my fingers
In pale, lonely darkness
Fingertips are my breath
Breath silhouette:
You.

Alternate Dimensions

This morning I woke up to a barrage of photographs from 8 years ago
when you were still together: divorced now
And I think about how nothing is permanent
It is a constant reminder: a photo of you playing bumper cars
And for all the world you look rapturous and joyful as though
This is all you could ever want: one another

Today she is marrying someone else
And you are on a road trip to the ocean with your own new love
And I don't fit into this picture
But I am effected by it
Staring at roaring colors of our two families at an amusement park
My daughter, ten now, two then squealing in delight with your daughter
Ten then, Eighteen now and headed to college in the autumn

I pour black coffee over chocolate almond milk in my Cancer sign white mug from Target
Everything is normal
And digital photographs don't fade.