“All lovers live on partial knowledge,” Cole says. I say symbiosis, our nameless and personal act, so-called for the world in you and the world in me, corresponding. Everything from simple two-arc birds, white against the starry sky above, to weird fishes down in the cold dark depths beneath, crescent moons for eyes like dreaming. I often think I am, because I don’t know what else to call it.
Is it imprudence we show with names, or do we simply spoil wonderment with everyday answers, and what would be the difference? I’ve longed to believe in one, waxing at times quotidian, and now my simple ardor is enamored with no longer longing to love because there’s you in my solutions, you more than anything, and that’s now, I call it, the always-been.
And now you’re here with me, sleeping beside. Astonished, gazing lunar, I feel as _____ must have when _____. Forgive my universalizing. I know how history pulls us apart, to speak of partiality. Such is the hook on the lure of its richness: the past becomes a domicile and then dwelling is easy.
Do you know how many times? I looked at that picture of you, smiling back at me from years ago, trying to feel precisely this without knowing, without reference, without time, without content, shy of what it added up to. How nice would that have been, I’d think, venturing to calculate my refuge in memories pulled present.
There’s such talent in your beauty, such easy virtuosity in your being. I lean and whisper two things I hadn’t read aloud the night before. “All measurements change for the person who becomes solitary;” “Life is always right.” Far from us, he is, that poet from Prague, but close, given the angle, which I suppose was his point. Symbiosis means never leaving, never having left, but always coming home and knowing. That’s mine, as are you, solitary, partial, perfect, and loved to entirety, my land, my sky, and my sea.