From January, 2004 (4 years ago?)

from the original "love letters" blog:

the cold cuts with precision as i
walk the same streets you prowl, night riding hard on my back, i let
the blocks meld together into complete cohesion.
look- i am not stumbling your city unawares- this is
my testament, i have found what calls you out -look- i have made it my own.
see how my hands are raw and shaking? skin scraped along the ruined remnants of your art, your
heart is jumbled, compressed tight between the breaks in the concrete
this is me, romanticizing your hardened exterior -look-
i too can speak the restless language of the transitional urban
ebb and flow, the dialect of these streets, it is now
a native tongue. look- i have discovered your world,
memorized and mimed its customs until my movements mocked with the
eloquent grace of "practice", until my flesh was scarred enough to "blend".
look into these eyes- if you could read the fluxuations, the differing degrees of dilation, what stories would these pupils tell? that i am here, now. that you are caught, paused, between these thighs, and that i can
hold tight enough to break you, i can
hold tight enough to let you go (as if you were never here) is the distance supposed to dare me? do you think you are a place i have never traveled to before? that these are plains i've never traversed?
look- my footsteps here are permanent, pounded into pavement, etched into stone with the weight of repetition, of redemption, of wrong doings -look-
it is a heavy heart that could carve such paths as these.

so how do i say this? send out transmissions to cover the sky?
scrawl it onto city walls? shout in tongues at faces turned away?
secrete coded messages out of sweat drenched skin?
and even then,
would my essence be strong enough to speak? to say
that all i ever needed was that tiny pause, somewhere between
in and ex hale
that i never intended to be something worth running from
that i feel the beat and pulse of these nights you claim
that i know what it is to stalk words across still landscapes
that i never expected love to be anything more than 4 letters, haphazardly linked together, in order to define a lack
that i am here, now, called out by the same
rhythm of passion, the same delusion and definition of self,
that calls you away.

look- cant you see those shadows, thrown up against the bricks,
those figures moving, silent and steady, illuminated through a haze
of smog and expectation?
they are walking away from the critical point of a chance convergence.
did you ever expect them to accomplish anything more than
good bye?

i did.
perhaps that was the simplest
mistake to make.