Last night, an out of place dream about T  (but aren't all dreams out of place, and perhaps, out of time?). We shared a kid (neither his or mine), anal dilators, a cramped bed with threadbare sheets, a bitter, if arranged, marriage. There were kinky sexual acts and a female contortionist, and before the marriage, a shoulder rub, ramen stands, many longing looks and silences. It was a Wong Kar Wai movie in the Third World.

I remember the emptiness.

He said, "The anal dilators need to go."

I remember aching for love.

Li Hui 

I love desire, the state of want and thought
of how to get; building a kingdom in a soul
requires desire. I love the things I’ve sought-
you in your beltless bathrobe, tongues of cash that loll
from my billfold- and love what I want: clothes,
houses, redemption. Can a new mauve suit equal God?
Oh no, desire is ranked. To lose
a loved pen is not like losing faith. Acute
desire for nut gateau is driven out by death,
but the cake on its plate has meaning,
even when love is endangered and nothing matters.
For my mother, health; for my sister, bereft,
wholeness. But why is desire suffering?
Because want leaves a world in tatters?
How else but in tatters should a world be?
A columned porch set high above a lake.
Here, take my money. A loved face in agony,
the spirit gone. Here, use my rags of love.

---Why I Am Not A Buddhist by Molly Peacock

Joan Miro

via Mine d'Art