Anaïs Nin

is too fleeting…
for me to be much preoccupied or compelled by relational aspects of it.

Even mere interest is… challenging,
when the benefit is not relative with the risks,
and costs to my time and energy.

I am affected by this,
where most others are not.
Instead I find joy in:

authentic connection,
the dynamics of interaction,
what is progressively cultivated;
not quickly contrived.

And the glorious danger.
The last was a force

As Nature taking balance by cull,
and 10 lives claimed, the mottled blue gray of skin the day after… Breathlessly closed eyes, inundation, and drowning tide.

This one loved with the silence of a midnight morgue,
and spent grief to restless sleep,
Some may call this: abandon.

The clock striking blind chords on deaf ears.
I finally figured out why I could never climax:
because each of such interactions was doing to me,

instead of doing with me in the life less ordinary.

There was no humanity in this dominance,
And stronger than its quickening, were the…

Such known only to those who survive their own deaths,
And cannot recall the passage of moment, with hour, and gone.
Perhaps this is the reason the French words for orgasm translate:
“The Little Death”.



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