It's true, Love. The capacity for disaster is within each of us. We know this as a
fact we fear and never admit. We could all fall suddenly from grace. The divine
would only sigh and watch, just as I watched you walk out the door and into the
winter night. Afterwards I saw my fears rise around me like a luminous cloud, like
foreboding, like unrequited love and regret, like all the spoken and unspoken
sorrows between us, so many of them, they had no choice but to resort to a
breathless silence, first lifting of their own accord, the way the prayers of the dying
rise in one last breath before sinking down, flattening into meaningless threads, a
million and one disconnected thoughts, non sequiturs, each an open admission that
life or beauty has no meaning after all, that from now until eternity it will always be
four o'clock in the afternoon, hours before dinner and hours after our last
interesting thought. That time of day when all humans begin to wonder if they will
ever make love again.
They never will. This much I know, now that you have left me.
[Nin Andrews 'Your Last Orgasm', from Fire on Her Tongue: An Anthology of Contemporary Women’s Poetry]
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