Impressions: death of love

The most inconvenient thing about the death of love is that it happens inside and well, it’s no good having dead things inside. As long as it took to stitch itself to every minute figment of your entrails, that’s how long it stays in there, dead. Highly inconvenient. For one, it takes up vital space—can’t nothing move in while dead love is there and frankly, nothing would want to. I’m not sure the issue is that dead love stinks—though maybe it does. It is likely about the essence of things: the living won’t abide the dead so near. I can’t remember when love died and sometimes, for the sheer magnitude of its life, I can’t help but wish I had a better sense of the moment it did.

In its time, it was soaring. All breath and words caught in trampling time, all resonance and power—the push, the answer, the truth. All that delirium, that acute feeling of transcendence, that “closest to God” nonsense people talk about. How the surrender first came... And most of all, that feeling. He seems to reach inside with his hand, slowly goes in and finds a note, and flicks it—just one note, your precise note, and it reverbs. Today though I stand in the shadow of the valley, I still believe that feeling is the only fucking point. It is as a believer that I wish I was more present in the moment it died. To sit attentive, and make the catalog of me in that death and knowing myself changing. I wish I had that chapter from which to read the others. Maybe I’m wishing for scale? I wish I had listened to the sound of the ringing note fading. Instead, it was completed silence that caught my attention.