August 21, 2012 § Leave a comment
The girl who wept from glass, wine glasses with delicate stems so fine that a pour of a dark Spanish red would have shattered the cup, glasses that dripped into being by accident from a source that disappeared as soon as its work was done, left the fog of her breath on the case. In the cloud as it faded away I saw all the heartache she had felt for all the beautiful and delicate things the world over, the arches cut by the wind from sandstone, the whispered admissions, the heart-shaped red bell pepper, the time.
A perfect mirror is colored a special sort of white in that it reflects all colors. Imperfect mirrors tend to keep a bit of green, as if green were a favorite of cheap mirrors. It is a common hylozoism, the longing and empathy for the waterless and the carbonless. A mirror’s favorite color will not change; the beauty of a wine glass will not leave us to share itself with another. We can hold onto a red bell pepper until it is a part of us or it is rotten. It is so comfortable in the ontological hinterland of abstractions and ideas and objects. Give me a blanket here, or the idea of a blanket, some gesture toward warmth, and I will rest.
If you think I did not love you like I said I loved you then you are wrong.