In The Name Of It

I have become uninterested in all things false so have no interest in remaining here. In studying law and staying a student. I do not inhabit that realm. I am a natural thing. Distracted by pigeons or branches or trees. In an abstract plane where everything matters, like emotion and pain and planets and greed. It was not fate that brought me here, not destiny or chance. I did not come here. I am no man. I am not something greater. It was the wind that blew me here. That blew my skin with its indifferent hand. An indifferent hand that calls to me again, with eyes not plagued by darkness and a face without a grin. To another place. To nowhere else. To the lady who I met last Sunday, I am sorry. For entering your room while you were inside. For meeting your presence with that look in my eyes. The same on my face at thirteen when I saw my first breasts on TV. 

 

Loss is obscured. Unimaginable. Incapable of being understood or comprehended. So much so that you were able to return me to it. The woman who apologised for my entering of her room, and who in her guilt made her bed and folded her towels. It feels like a false fate or ironic will, me forgetting first despite you being ill. Always still my bastard dad, just lonely and unhappy. You are still here, It did not happen, you are not mad, you do still matter. You don’t remember now. Eyes since taken, peeled and pasted to ceilings, summoned far away by the hand with no feeling.

 

I watched you forget. How to piss. I saw the vowels you mouthed out as your eyes lost my name. I observed your skin wither and your brown hair grey. It was never watching you forget, but watching you be forgotten. The world I once lived with, stolen by a world I was lost in. Your face to me still feels wrong, the man, the flesh is there, but the soul is hung. Lost and lame in limbo, drowned out loud by the lillies and the green, that sit, that watch, that steal you through your window. Like the killer penguins from outer space that you told me smiled as they stole your face. Or your brother who died yesterday. Who came to visit you from Africa to tell you. 

 

What to do now in the name of it all. I wanted to cry but hated it all. Babies, and families, and the middle class. Old men made me angry and I hated the bus. I am anxious in shops and never like men. I now never will but never did then. I wanted to hate so did as hate does. I disliked the moon and squandered the sun. I told myself strength was just being blunt. I said fuck and shit and prick. My favourite was cunt. 

 

I can’t change it now and I don’t think I want to. Despite all that’s left here to tell you. That your life was not in vain. That I would gladly waste mine loving you. And all those lives I might live again. To bask in the gift of your presence. To hear your laugh, or witness your rage. To exist in all the peaks and troughs of your truth and emotion. To inhabit every space in between. Each shift, each motion. Your life could not have been in vain because in your absence I have loved you, and a life that leaves love is a life lived above truth, beyond sight, and past conception. It is the power of all things, the universal glue. Tides of rage that left me like pockets of air ceasing in their expansion, releasing me from their destruction. I continue now in the name of it all, in the name of love, in the name of you.