In conversation with .. 4!

aby.” It’s strange to think that we’d be set
apart, not by our past or by mutual hurt,
by a disconnect in our frequencies, but
something greater and more threatening.
It’s easier to fall apart when love turns sour
on both ends, when missing comes with
an underlying feeling that it was all for the
best.
I sit to wait for the pears rot and turn sour.
I sit to feel the tangerines and lemons in
my garden run dry. I sit in the shower, and
my tears blend in with the water. I remember
bathing your body, adoring it, grasping
your fullness in my palms, nurturing it,
admiring the way the liquid would fall and
change with your chest, change with your
legs, change with the small of your back. I
sit and cry for the way I’d take your face in
my hands and kiss your eyelids, kiss your
forehead, kiss your cheeks. It takes me
back to epsom salt and white wine nights
in the bathtub. My fingertips conjure back
your presence, and I trace in the air your
body, and, when consciousness falls back
into this body, I pretend to hold you with
eyes shut.
And while we wait to hold each other once
again, the unkempt grass grows for nobody
to see, it cuts the pavement in strings
and you, you move like the wind shifts and
chases, you shine hard and call and go
through hair, through doors and tunnels
and branches, you reach the depth of the
water, the roots in the soil, the bottom of
the glass. And it is then that I am reminded
that things exist in a perpetual state of chaos,
and life is only trying to figure out how
to cope with the fact that there is no such
thing as a consistent state of peace. Peace,
like water, cannot be held or attained, and
it only grows more unattainable there
more we point out its lack in presence. And
in this chaos, I write to tell you this: I’ve
loved you, and I love you still, like I love the
soft early-morning light.
Yours truly,
Andrés
@andrewgrams
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