There is a moment when threshold and the body become one, a singular boundary that is neither awake nor dead, what is to be awake than dead, ever more awake than dead, o death, how are you to even make room or sense. Here is the threshold, say of numbers or text or drink, and here is our body and how do we make the both work. The day I met you, you brought over a pack of cigarettes that reminded me of my father's cigarettes, you only had three left, you wanted more but we drank vodka and acted like we didn't want more, why I'll never know. The day you left, you said all you wanted was to make sure my body looked the same as when you met me, that my body was as soft or curved or straight or bones as you wanted it to be when you first met me, that it wasn't, until now, and you wanted to make sure.
I am obsessed with the what constitutes day and night and what constitutes longing and the desire for longing. What constitutes behavior as relevant or not and what creates a boundary for these days in which it feels boring to consume, boring to not consume, boring to live at all. Raleigh calls and says that they tried to get a hold of me the other night, banged on my door but no one answered and it was because we were fucking and then fighting and then smoking naked wrapped in a sheet and then fighting again. The night you exploded into my house because the door was unlocked and you didn't know where else to go and so you exploded into my house at four in the morning and came into my bedroom when I was with another person in bed fucking and fighting and smoking cigarettes wrapped up in sheets. Take me home, you said, or I'll just stay here, you said, can you sleep with me on the couch? you ask but I say no, I'll take you home, I'll take you home and I do and you cry and tell me that you want me to stay with you, lay with me until I fall asleep, you say, but I can't, I can't, I say and I am crying now too and its been hours now since you came into my house and my other lover is gone when I finally make my way home, I am in pajamas, I look like trash.
When four in the morning becomes eight in the morning and because the sun has come up it is no longer night but it is still night to me, it is always still night to me.
I no longer desire you, I no longer even think about you when I am alone, I have thought about you when I am alone and the reasoning between being alone and being lonely and when does it become tedious to be alone and lonely and you finally have to make a decision to be neither. I am not good at going to coffee shops or bars alone to make friends with people because I do not believe in boundaries and the evening (always the evening!) brings with it people following me back to my house and at least one person in my bed that is not the person that I want in my bed and so the cycle of morning and night continues and I say things I don't mean and do enact things I don't mean in order to not be lonely. I have a dream that I kiss you and in real life I kiss you and these two things never feel the same.
When do we believe that we have created the largest and best scenario of our lives, to be replayed back and forth, in front of our eyes, for the rest of our days? Do you measure it in a baby, your baby, the baby you have spilled seed for and has been birthed from a womb and now it is yours, it is yours. Do you measure it in love or what is the difference between love and consistency, the threshold and the body, of the body, when is the threshold and the body the same. I cannot ever plan my moments with you, I cannot foresee, even in my clearest and most cohesive framework, what our moments will be like together. When I will put my hands around your face and kiss you. You never remember how tall I am, you are always surprised when we are together how tall I am, you always seem to have in your memory that you are so much bigger than me but you are not, there is not much difference in size between you and I. You have become accustom to women who you can enact violence on, whose bodies are thresholds and what comes of boundaries. You have become accustom to women who are small waifs.
I replay the day we met in my mind and wish I could have foreseen then what the moments later would be, how my body was the threshold, how I wanted you to understand the ways in which I was marked and did the marking when we experienced each other in any capacity. To mark and be marked by the Other. When you explode into my unlocked front door in the morning, in the night. When night and morning are together, how I am obsessed. Remind me tomorrow afternoon of all the ways in which we can and will explode in the future and I will tell you I cannot see that far away, in advance.
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