When I was twenty-one I grieved at
the mess of souls that we were, at
our quiet longings, our misplaced
electric fires, how we gave
ourselves, our lives, so furiously,
boundlessly, beautifully, madly to
love like young fucking human
beings out in the street protesting
the overbearing cold and never
being really sure but finding hope
in the smallest of kindnesses.
I sat in cold rooms with friends and
others, soon-to-be friends, and
found inexplicable warmth in the
sharing of stories and words and
the outpouring of something like a
shared humanity when for a few
seconds I am lost in this stream of
others and come out through some
other side feeling like I've walked
with other shoes, like you've put
your heart in this cavity where mine
should go and I am confused and
breathless and thrilled.
I spent nights wondering about
love and sacrifice and loss, feeling
at a loss at this instability begotten
by love, by this ceaseless giving
myself up as if I were bread and
wine.
in the mornings I cried tears, real
tears that came out of my eyes and
nestled in my beard and I
remembered what it was like to
breathe, to feel a pain in a heart
that's not your own.
still there was yet a longing.
the world, the whole of it,
was my unrequited love.
Lista de imágenes:
1. Uno de los muchos selfies de Allen Ginsberg.
