and i’ve always thought about it as something so beautiful. but most times, it seems like i tend not to recognize it; maybe, i have too much to give or too little or i really don’t know what love is and i have none but scattered and little familiarities of it through names i’ve known. i go over its uncertain patterns but i tend not to see it whole and that’s maybe because my palms are still too small and innocent to carry it through. i often think i haven’t and i can’t meet it yet as the one that comes like an angel’s breath and comes away as tender as a bruise that you can feel it as it goes or even as something so gentle that even losing it would feel beautiful. a lot of times, i feel like i am missing so much thinking i can’t see it through bits and little times it often comes around: dancing like fingers hopelessly wanting to hold on to something, and smells younger than every dawn’s early light passing like a moment. i often don’t meet it as nice and as kind as what most people tell it was but i thought, perhaps, not everything needs to be seen the same way and as they are.
for i’ve seen it when it was like a last good day. i’ve seen it existing on its verge of disappearing not even trying to be remembered, but just so eager while falling into nothing. it happened to stay at the edge of things before everything falls away, clinging in to what’s about to lose—seems like odds, like old times, and it’s out of control. it seems like i’ve only seen it holding back to little glimpse of what’s sane but almost never in madness and i could miss it anytime because it’s all over the place. i’ve seen it seeming like never lighter and was about to fail a little more often for it seems to stay and last longer than we could ever hold it. i’ve always thought about it as something so beautiful, but i’ve seen it otherwise: like something i couldn’t let to slip away without having to write and ache about it, like something so cruel that even with ways you never do, i can still say there’s no way i could see it better. i do know, i can’t really fall for it as familiar and as willing as anyone could and i could never see it—never in so many beautiful ways it can come through, but i’ve seen it in the ways we did: through spaces, through its absence and its every non-existing ways. i’ve seen it at the edges. and i stared at it for too long i realized hearts are no longer there before it even falls. and for that i say, perhaps—
to me, it’s never been strange at all.
— 02:34 l. sin, before the absence
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»» photo (without the words in it) taken from Jessie Roth
