Hi. Jaime. You?
I never knew quite what you were, and for a time that you were at all.
I remember hearing of you, they said that you existed.
& I remember now him saying that you don’t.
I don’t know if you’re anywhere now.
I suppose logistically-practically it doesn’t matter.
I love a part of you that once loved my father.
& viche versa. My father once loved a part of you.
perhaps all of you.
I love the part of you that made my sisters, even if I may not love fully my sisters.
I love any moment that you loved at all.
And I despise every moment, every part of you that ever made my father feel any less than exemplary.
Because juxtaposed, he is.
And he was by your side. I hope you knew that. That there was a man that loved you as he hated so much of you, or loved you when he hated you once.
Goodbye phantom-woman-wife death. Mother of my sisters, once partner to my father.
I saw the minds of my
generation. Some of them.
I looked & some looked back.
Never, always temporarily.
Never like it “was”,
or some say “will.”
We sat around smoking cigarettes &
We sat around & said yes to
this & that, more and more often.
Too much, which would increasingly mean
We sat around telling stories, but
usually very little.
You can usually see in a thunderstorm
of hookah & ashen promises.
You can see what could be,
& you say,
"I wish I couldn’t see what could be.".
It was harder & harder to live,
and easier & easier to live-half.
You could taste something,
in the air of groping & reaching & reaching
out. fingers would swipe eachother, connect for an
instant. And that would usually
be all, end all keep all sacred and inside.
Wandering, I guess, or
buckling down into night languid.
at Ortega Forest