I was talking to myself the other day
the way I often do, talking to myself
about love. Trying to figure the thing out.
How it comes about, how it wanes, then,
how, miraculously, almost, it comes about
again. How it can save you in ways, for
a time at least, but also how it destroys you
in ways. Talking to myself about Amanda
walking shirtless by the window and the
hot stale air ripping in from the beach,
and Rebecca in Los Angeles with some
strange man these days. She has glasses now,
you know? Talking about whether it is this
big sacred thing or whether it is smaller,
and easily transferable. How I see five dozen
women every day and think I could love
a million particulars about each of them.
Asking myself whether a thing so abundant
can really be sacred. Talking especially about
that enormous void that comes after, and how
that first time you think this void doesn’t
ever close, but how every time after
you know the void will eventually be filled.
Though even that knowledge doesn’t prevent
the void. It still comes and has to yawn
and moan and then be filled. Talking about
how many years later, when you think
the danger of the void has passed, you find
yourself plunging down a sinkhole for one or
five or ten seconds, but the emptiness is no
longer fearful but something else entirely.
Something full, or bright, like snow in the
very middle of the day. Something that
makes you laugh at the wholeness of its
hurt. Something that makes you remember
being a young man, back in those days
when you thought love would save you.