Oh, I
don’t mean you’re handsome, not the way people think
of handsome. Your face seems kind. But your eyes —
they’re beautiful. They’re wild, crazy, like some
animal peering out of a forest on fire.
And I need
to see you, but I don’t see you, and I need to hear you,
but I don’t hear you, and I need to touch you, but I
don’t touch you, and I need to think about you, and that
is all I do.
I guess we often get the
deep blues, both of us, and wonder what it all means - the
people, the buildings, the day by day things, the waste of time,
of
ourselves.
unless it comes out of
your soul like a rocket,
unless being still would
drive you to madness or
suicide or murder,
don't do it.
unless the sun inside you is
burning your gut,
don't do it.
when it is truly time,
and if you have been chosen,
it will do it by
itself and it will keep on doing it
until you die or it dies in you.
We're all going to die, all of us, what a circus! That
alone should make us love each other but it doesn't. We are
terrorized and flattened by trivialities, we are eaten up by
nothing.