2002, "Appertif" (a series), "the Agony of Love"... and Other Rococo Things

Is it in the pause between words, in the naked glance across the room, in the quiet touch passed between strangers that makes me think it's somehow worth it?

Exhalation. Craving. Rememberence. Solemnity. Playfulness.

A fat golden moon hung sad in the sky. The press of lips against my hand. A few parting words, 'don't forget me.'

Violins which sound like cries of love.
The ecstasy of hate and the agony of love.

I want this kind of agony. The kind of coldness that leaves lips blue and limbs numb.

I am already immune to heat. The heat of a thousand sighs and caresses meant for something more.

Do not love me too much or you will leave this world with empty hands and an empty heart.

Do not love me more than I am capable of loving myself. It hurts so much I can't feel a thing.

Spin me around, my little world on it's axis, upside down, twisting endlessly alone and fruitless.

Why love more when the bitter is sweeter than my happiness?

Why love with all my blood and bone and flesh and feeling and thought and heartbeat?

Why struggle through the blackened seas of primordial beginnings?

Why regress to an embryonic state?

Why flow on waves of sentiment and fear and attachment?

Why bow and bend and scrape to chemistry?

Oh, that's right - because it's interesting. Ah, because I cannot help myself sometimes.

Still, I bottle up my passions for a later date. I dash a little behind each ear and on the nape of my neck when the wind blows a little stronger some nights.

And then I call you near me.