The Reason I Remember the Name of the Food of a Cat I Don't Feed

I tried to stay upright for the same number of hours I had felt my heart hurt today. Not in the bad way. But  perhaps in the good.

 

 

Simple meets complex

Over-thinker meets oblivious.

You who listens to love songs, and me who listens to metal.

Me who has the blankets in a mountain, and you who tucks all corners in.

Hand holder meets too-PTSD'ed-out-for-most-PDA.

One of the things I love about you is the way that many of the feelings that you have must be documented, written, and pondered while listening to music. 

I know that particular feelings will be soaked in while in the bathtub of your apartment while your cat barges in, walks the edge of the tub, and almost falls in.

In Smurf terms: When I first met you, I was afraid you were Vanity Smurf. Now I realize you are Poet Smurf, described as "very sensitive and artistic...he spends most of his time wandering in nature to improvise poems about it, and sometimes has trouble finding verses that rhyme. He usually manages to do it through some accident." I don't really know how much more fitting you can get. 

What I love about you is that you are so clear to me. 

I know that when you are angry and hurt, you put your sunglasses on even if they are unnecessary.

I know that if I go to take a picture of you, you will start with your "cool kid with no emotions" face, but you will hear me snickering from behind the camera and, eventually, your lips will spill into the widest grin. (That is the picture that I take.)

I know that you get a sense of safety out of knowing that your cat is okay.

I know the reason you fought so hard to keep him was a form of self-love.

 

So there you are

in your bathtub tonight.

Wrapped inside its porceline arms

while your crooked cat circles you 

like a wobbling

shaky 

shark.

k.

(image: luli sanchez)

The Water I Pour Over Me

 

I recently read a book of love poems written by Bertolt Brecht. 

They were not very good. 

There was one that was okay.

 I will put it, here:

 

When I Left You, Afterwards...

 

When I left you, afterwards

On that great today

I saw nothing, when I began

To see, but gaiety.

 

Since that evening, that hour

You know the one I mean

Livelier is my stride and more

Beautiful this mouth of mine.

Greener are, now that I feel,

Meadow, bush and tree,

The water is more lovely cool

That I pour over me. 

 

 --Bertolt Brecht (I don't know the specific year)

You see what I mean.  It's okay. I like the last two lines.

In other news, I have been having that particular stripe of gender dysphoria, again. That kind that leaves me dressed in roughly a three piece suit, but with my fingers painted a bright, popsicle red-orange and the tiniest strawberry decal on my left index finger. Tie wear and thigh harnesses. 

It is springtime, but there will forever be the quasi-uniformed femmey boy who occupies my genders. 

be well; be loved,

k.

(Image: Pierre Molinier, Sans titre 1960, via fiac tumblr)

(Title: Line of the aforementioned Brecht poem that was okay.)