“When the mystery of the connection goes, love goes. It's that simple. This suggests that it isn't love that is so important to us but the mystery itself. The love connection may be merely a device to put us in contact with the mystery, and we long for love to last so that the ecstacy of being near the mystery will last. It is contrary to the nature of mystery to stand still. Yet it's always there, somewhere, a world on the other side of the mirror (or the Camel pack), a promise in the next pair of eyes that smile at us. We glimpse it when we stand still.
The romance of new love, the romance of solitude, the romance of objecthood, the romance of ancient pyramids and distant stars are means of making contact with the mystery. When it comes to perpetuating it, however, I got no advice. But I can and will remind you of two of the most important facts I know:
1. Everything is part of it.
2. It's never too late to have a happy childhood.” - Tom Robbins in Still Life with Woodpecker
when it knocks, what ways do you open the door?
perhaps you are not home, or the screen on the window is left ajar and the window open, the curtains drawn, the wind blowing, or the backdoor unlocked and the light on
maybe you've been waiting, or you are in the shower when the song comes on and you're unaware that there could be anyone else in the house, their silent footsteps marred by what emanates from your lungs
bestowed the bed left unmade and tangling, the pressing matter of bodies together (some said to wait and others listened to something else), that time still has a word, for in the moment of an eternity it never ends and yet is unfolding the rest that there sits, where nothing occurs at our hands, because it's nothing that lights a trail until space itself speaks and calls forth the things of the forest that gather there
the mystery of alive, or a lie, or lying on the forest floor, there are the strings that grew thick, a paralleled chord, the glimpse or the deep dive, that recall a friend, a shared womb and the memory of together, the tale of a twin that in separate bodies should so closely stay to self
& then the lover, or lovers, the two lovers entangled, though it's not the paracord of jumping out of planes or propelling down sheathen rock, a mystery, not unknown or knowing but when the mind's eye will rest and the flutter of whisper bats as wings that carry the wind together, there they find each other at the edge of the stream where water moves and the rocks underneath are unturned, drinking
how do you make love stay?
staring it in the face that it doesn't have, a dinner table and the third seat
holy un-owning, the face of question, or was a once fear underlining the patent that peers into a potent bag holding a small piece of bark, the sea, the sand, and the moon itself that looks onto us because only we look at it
love stays, because love has nowhere to go, only we do