Lets face it we’ve been making out to songs about break up and heart ache
but I’ve come to realize that romance should be less like a flower and more like an earthquake.
And I’m not saying I want to shake cities to the ground.
I’m not saying I want the rubble that remains to become a lost and found where we find
the kind of tolerance it takes to rebuild in the face of tragedy.
Because I’m tired of living in a world that says people only come together when faced with catastrophe.
I want you, to want me, to be the me you see when I’m free to be the me that got me next to you.
And as for romance? Well, I want that too.
I want to fall asleep next to you, 100 times a night,
so I can know you 100 times better before we hit the day light. And despite all of this,
I also want amnesia so I can relive each kiss with a perfect newness
that leaves me smashed in the arms of rapture. I want the sky to fracture under
the impossible weight of an apology because I’m sorry. I’m sorry that I want so much.
I’m sorry that I’m using “I’m sorry” as a crutch to lean on for so long
but if you sing me that song of sweet logic again then I promise to make the effort
to stand on my own.
Thomas Hoepker, Downtown Manhattan with World Trade Center towers, seen from “lover’s lane’ in New Jersey, New Jersey, 1983
Someone who’ll stare softly but straight at me, smiling reassuringly when I tell her how my 73 year old Medieval lit prof looked up from Chaucer, stared blankly over the class’s heads and said that even the happiest marriage will end in death.
Someone who understands the efficiency inherent in suicide.
Someone who knows that love can be the thickest slice of hell we’ll ever taste.
Someone who would dance with me by the sides of highways.
Andy Weaver, A Little Love Poem
Artist: Ryan Adams
There are many things that I would like to say to you but I don’t know how…
Jordan Tiberio. Lacuna, 2013-2014. Double exposure on medium format.
October, 2013, I used to fall asleep to the melancholy lullabies of your memory each night. Tossing and turning I’d hope the thoughts of you would seep out of my ears if I moved with enough force, but my attempts always failed. You see, when you were mine, and as your fingers would travel along the landscape of my limbs, seeds were planted within my bones. Your love would arrive in the form of a storm, and I was always without my umbrella. I remember feeling the rosebuds cracking through my marrow; my skin flushing the crimson color of their newborn petals. Their roots rejoiced to the nurturing of your lips as they danced across my flesh. But only a year after you planted your garden, a drought abruptly roared over my plains. Those once luscious flower beds on my bones have now been long wilted, for my heart is void of the kind of love it desires the most.
Your voice was an octave equal to the song of the birds in the early morning, waking up the Earth. And it was not until I was no longer awoken by it, and I forgot its sweet melody, that I realized heartbreak does indeed fade away. At some point my memories of you started to become diluted, some of them possibly existing as figments of my own imagination, never having existed in the first place. And even if I wish not to admit it, I’d fantasize about your next relationship. What if you loved them more? What if you forgot about me? It is hard for one to imagine a love with anyone but their ex-lover, so we scoff at how they seem so unaffected by the sadness they’ve inflicted on our hearts. But experiencing these overwhelming daydreams only lead me to the same realization that forgetting the sound of your voice did. One day I will love someone new just as you will. And maybe his hands will plant a new flower all of his own in the bones you have left behind.
Artifacts of you will still resurface when the future farmers of your old land harrow the soil, and when they do I will dust them off and position them proudly on my mantle. Because it is okay to hold onto distant times. I will never apologize for the days I spend dreaming, or the evenings I bathe in nostalgia. I refuse to let go of the memory of how your eyes were the colors of emeralds I wish I could wear around my neck. And I may never cease reliving the ecstasy that was once so plentiful because I can’t just let you fade away. I loved you first. These are my memories— only I can control their fate— and they are what will make me feel alive. No matter where you are, you will always be with me, and although we may no longer be in love, I still love you.
But while I’m here I must not deprive myself of joy, for we’ll all become just impressions in the bed sheets one day.