Henry & June
Published in Everyone's a fucking poet! 1995
The theatre was nearly empty; I could have filled it with imagination but I understood the silence and the vaccuous uncertainty. In the dim lights and the distance between my eyes and yours, I recognized the space around the ends of our fingers, an unfinished bridge spanning the chasm between trust and abandon. I put my hands at my sides. The film started. I sat at the edge of high school daydreams. Anaïs Nin was more erotic than history itself or the letters she wrote to Henry Miller. He responded in person. I wrote you poems across town with no return address but you knew where to find me.II.
You never came. We will never go to Paris. Your eyes never left the screen and I never stopped wondering. Things I couldn't imagine unfolded like outdated maps over discomforting terrain. When I admit to being lost I do so with novelty, adventure, the casual lust of expatriots.III.
I am sitting cross-legged in the seat beside you, and we are not together. We follow our own sense of romance. The signposts of experience, cobblestone streets and literature, will stay between us : who love apart or do not love at all, the unspoken sorrow of leaving, or never having been there. I took you home.
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