I don’t want what I haven’t got.
I couldn’t wear any of the jewelry you bought me because it would stain and sting my skin. I’ve felt your fabric and it blanketed us both before asking me what I wanted. I still felt lonely underneath you.
We could be at the same place at the same time, and completely miss each other. We are operating on two different wave lengths, swimming through two different currents.
If I wanted another you I could fling a rock in any direction at La Poubelle, and happily hit another cokehead who listens to beach house, fetishizes western wear and has an aversion to the truth.
But I don’t want what I haven’t got.
I get high on the progress, the uncovered starry material that emerges in your absence. I call it the quantum leap forward. We didn’t worship the same god. Yours was punitive, callous, distant. I tried to explain, if we are living in a multiverse- every version of god exists, remember. Remember. Every possible version of God exists, every multiverses version of God, so pick a good one. Make it generous, make it kind. That way there will always be more realizations.
I refuse to kill my madness, the same madness that kept me soft and tender when I should have been vile. The madness that keeps me hopeful. Patient. Surrounded by love. Improvising tempestuous fairy tales and bringing them to life.
I don’t want what I haven’t got.