If I fear the phonecall, I don’t love myself.
If I fear the email, I stutter and titter and obviate my
I have a right to exist, and this right
is mine alone.
And if alone is my des-
tiny, it’s no smaller than the alone of anyone else.
I do love my SO – as life has clearly demonstrated.
I have not been able to do what was right
in all respects.
But part of what
was not right with what I did [or did not do]
was because we are social, not solitary beings.
And life enjoyed solo when espressos are best
is not a life which is easy to lead: for him, who needs
touching – and for her, who does not.
I have only had sex with two women in my life.
Both relationships [have] ended, in one way or
another – though the love I feel for one endures
because of times and memories and expectations
of hope and growth, and
children shared quite wondrously;
and the love, meanwhile, I feel for the other endures
because endurance was in no way the flavour
of the being touched in all aspects of
being I experienced: conversations and
expressions, and music in my ears of
unending trails of
words and beautiful pictures,
and the physical affect I never received
in other times; in all
aspects of perception, in all manner of ways,
a weird moment of strange times, a strange time
of [p’raps] unrepeatable moments.
That, then, is exactly my evidence of common
denominator I am.
If I have failed in both cases to express
myself well, it is not the fault of the women
I failed out there, but the fault of the man
I failed to express.
And in meeting myself today,
I realise the truth, and the bitterness it holds in
its casket of gold, foolish and untold till today:
my future lies in the future;
my memories in the past;
and whilst my friends and family in the present
may wish to
be with me or not, if I really want to build a hearth
and home of
where what I need most to be
well is finally, at last, to be
given, shared and entrusted to me, and
exchanged in loving and persistent dialogue,
and beloved by both parties,
and enjoyed by both sexes,
and explored by both intelligences,
and written and painted and created by
beautiful minds I need to be a part of in order
not to be ill …
then if the woman of my marriage never needed
my touch, and the woman who most touched
me can no longer contemplate my
being, my future as described must belong with
other people: and this realisation is so
bloody hard to accept; and this realisation is so
bloody hard to reveal; and this realisation is so
bloody hard to contain in the
deepest, worst, most bloodied part of my being.