This bed is a ship

This bed is a ship is a sporadically updated internet journal, 
a home for odd scraps of writing.

I hold nothing. I let all the aching limbs of tender lovers float away, their tastes fading from my lips, my memory a city swathed in fog, darkening brows half-glimpsed at sprinting distance. 

No body’s weight upon me holds me to earth, but in the depths of me there hang these crystal visions, the blue, blue eyes of untouchable desires. 

I can hold nothing in my arms, all that can be pressed against me can step also slowly back, or so quickly forward as to make all embrace impossible, but the foolish saintings of my heart are so far from the truth of men that for me to lose them the very continents and constellations of our lives would have to shift.

I daydream of the cracking of these seals, a sudden breaking of silence or an appearance at my door, but I know, I suppose, the truth:

I will love these men forever because I owe them nothing, because they want nothing from me, and so I tumble over all my burning body to give and give and give of myself, to pour the libation of my life upon them, and I know these are a good deal too many pretty words to say I want to fuck the ones who will not have me, let me say too:

what a thing it is, to be in love without love getting in the way. 

I torment myself, but these romantics from warmer places, their voices ring the clearest in my head, all my words formed for those who would keep my lips from their necks, and perhaps every poem of lust makes me more myself than its satiation could. 

but still (you), to reach across a table, to sit quietly with my head in your lap.

or (you), to climb aboard a bus and then another and then another just to tend your wounds and hear your voice running like an engine in your throat.

a jagged ear, a crooked smile. 

someone, something real, is always temporary. inevitable ending sneaking into a familiar voice, slowly, or the plate glass fall of a quick unraveling, or the messy pulled out stitch. 

an idea I can love forever.

it would, perhaps, ruin it all, to pull one of these strings of all my fancy down into the dirt of living and to try and reconcile these vast seas of feeling with two glasses of water in a small kitchen.

but I want, I want, I want, I want, I want.

Sid Branca