I’ve been meaning to say
Any number of things but find a lack of words,
The power of speech, gone, emptied.
To say, that is to be in a space of speaking–but how?
What do the philosophers call it? Subjectivity?
Yes, what subjectivity must I inhabit to speak to you
All the truths that circulate between us?
They are vast, these truths.
But so is the between-ness.
I’m sorry but this may take some time.
That making myself known to you requires care.
That my words, like my own being, are so so delicate.
Sinews that barely bind together their power, their meaning.
The being of which seems to come undone the moment they enter air.
They are lost, aren’t they? These words.
I mean to say, when I speak do I leave these words to a special kind of death?
The physicists say the universe may never stop expanding.
They say that our stars, the things we use to chart and know ourselves,
The constellations that keep our histories and futures within arms reach,
That they are moving beyond us–someday beyond view, billions of years from now, gone.
Aren’t my words to you like these stars, like so many constellations
That move forever beyond ourselves.
They spread and lack the substance to reunite with each other.
Are they lost lovers doomed to wander the expanse of the that divide between us?
Is this divide so unbridgeable?
I’ve been meaning to say “I love you.”
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