This piece is a beautiful addition to our February theme, exploring the implications on oneself from both emotional and literal bonds. Thank you so much for sharing with us Matt!
Two Becomes One
I want you to hold me, again. Hold me like that saxophone bit in Hot Dreams held us then; holds me now, getting intimate with my ears, winding its way through my brain tissue to peak at the thoughts within. Thoughts that, too, don’t stay. The saxophone in the song doesn’t last forever either, not even on replay. It built up the exit and crashed as its way out.
Hold me like we held each other, Hot Dreams always playing in the background; we forgot they were there. We were holding things that were more concrete, physical, real enough when you’d lean in to touch. Don’t tell me love is metaphysical. Its thick, like blood, like silence after saxophones. Sounds have substance and weight too, you know. Just like love. We tied knots, made em’ thick too. We held on tight. Strengthened with vows too, hoping it’d make our hearts stick like glue. It was concrete, we swore, squeezing our love. It was six days past New Years.
Death clings to life, too.
I hold myself now. My hand in mind. I dig from nerve-endings to neurons, doing spring cleaning, time for gardening in purifying rays of sunshine, cutting out old vines. Sometimes I trip over them, finding lost memories that have grown into roots. Their mud and muck stick to my shoes and seep into bleeding hands and scraped knees. Sometimes, I throw them aside, running to find band-aids that’ll fit cuts and tears of this size. Sometimes, I check to make sure no one’s looking then I rebury them. I’ll add a note or edit in something different because I like to think it ended better than that. I’m just hoping it’ll be easier next time I trip.
But when I’m feeling smart and (- to myself -) kind, I hold onto them. I place them, delicate as they are, in the left breast pocket of my favourite shirt. There’s a hole where that pocket was now, you kept the shirt and I don’t think I can cross the lines necessary to get it back. But anyways, when I’m smart and kind, I carry them in that shirt with me. Each of those little tragedies are all you’ve left, I have none of your things. Each one is you, are what I have left of you, but they are also mine. These precious little gifts you’ve given me, I thank you for your time. You were always so thoughtful, while I was always so full of thoughts. You’ve stolen them for a month, but we’ve had time apart and I’m getting used to the idea of having sole possession of time again. Fuck that, who am I thinking like “you” and “I” could be separates. We both knew the law of contact: two things, once connected by proximity, remain bonded forever.
I wonder what lasts longer, attachment, or eternity?
I say, it’s the silence after the sax goes.