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Water passing from fragile life into sky Water passing from fragile life into sky
by Abigail George
2019-11-10 09:33:57
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Water threaded us together for a brief moment in time.
In the swimming pool, at my uncle’s house. I thought it

would always be like this. I loved you like a beautiful

with the voice of a child, the awesome staying power of a girl
   I also thought I would be young forever. Youth is always

lovely but now I’m old. Nearing forty. I want to bathe with
    you in the sea. Count the stars, think of the state that I am

wate01_400in. You move mountains, and I create rivers, and although
we are no longer "us" and friends no longer see "us"

together, and we're miles away from each other, I still write
to you, putting you in context, contest, competition, as if

you are still vital, and beautiful to me. I am man, and at last
I am free. Woman is woman to me, and I was only woman

in your arms, a solitary figure who wanted to give you stranger
things, objects that would fill, full, further your heart with genuine

signs, wonders, miracles, projects of wonder, and awe. It is going
down, Lord of War, Lord of Obligation, Lord of Ophelia, Lord of

Johannesburg look how I work it, look how I spin the metaphor, my sex, your sex, my Orlando-gender, your player-gender. I have a

confession to make. Nobody loves me. I am lovesick, playing with      madness,

I have a confession to make. Find another. Move fast intellectual.
     I go out to live. To study people so I can write stories to them

or about them. You once had the human touch, me touching you,
     you touching me, the nape of my neck. I kissed you, and felt

you in the wind, the wine, my heart, my soul soulmate. I will never
     find another like you. I promise you, you promised me nothing.

Music and lyrics dancing all over the page of my journal. Couples      on a dancefloor celebrating spirit and their soul. The green leaf

infects me. The colour of the day. The movement of sound in              the dancers’ arms and bodies
warning me that I shouldn’t feel ashamed of my own loneliness
staring at me in the face. This is what you have done. I fall in love

with my best friend, I fall inlove with younger women, I fall inlove
with older men. I want to be with you forever in eternity, the drugs

don't reverse my nerve, don't address my vigour, my burnout, my
     stress. You don't love me. This is your moment. This is my

velocity. I tell you that I love you, and then you leave for Paris, and I
     leave for Swaziland with tears and longing and injury in my eyes.

I am more than a shadow, shell, shroud of being when I am with you.

Look into my eyes, at the heartache, shame, despair, hardship               there. I will never find another man like you. My words are

complex. In the end, I feared that I would never know love but in the end I did. I loved my brother’s child as if he were my own. I

cherished the birth of this relationship. I cherish the end of this relationship. Now I go with the intrinsic flux of the river. Flowing

into the sea, flowing into the working intolerance of words. I fear
        love now. It leaves me cold, indifferent, aloof. I'm devoted to

winter now. No longer devoted to you. Tonight I'm thinking of you.
I am a translator of the metaphysical when it comes to the bonds

of family. Of lovers. I have my neuroses. My anxiety. I live with this imbalance in my equilibrium. I seldom feel unhappy these days.

I’ve realised
    that happiness is a choice. The only choice. A healthy choice.

I’m haunted, I confess. Don't think of me. Don't think of me. Stay
with the mother of your child, the people who love you for you.

I would have been miserable at loving you. I have this longing for
activity. For writing. For socialising. For not conforming, loving.

It’s not a pretty goal or a lovely kind of ‘haunted’. And it's not love.
I just have this longing now to confess to everything past.

Abigail George has two books in the Ovi Bookshelves,
"All about my mother" & "Brother Wolf and Sister Wren"
Download them, NOW for FREE HERE!



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