The So-Called Fake Relationship

Apparently there's a trend now to talk about relationships that never came to full fruition or that never achieved something or other as "fake." Maybe it would be better to call it the "almost-relationship?" Isn't it a little callous, a little sad to talk about ourselves as utterly detached as "fake" implies? It's all so black and white, all or nothing apparently--a dichotomy of being. But when you're in it, (it being a new something with someone,) you're in a sea of gray, of getting to know, of possible becoming. We live in a reality of almosts. Of possibles. Of maybes. There are no signed contracts or even verbal agreements of belonging and expectation. No strict social rules regulating our conduct. All you can do is swim through a sea of uncertainty and hope to come out alive? Thriving if you're lucky but often a little bit broken, jaded, sad. There used to be calling cards, agreements between families to even say hello and now there is very little that regulates relationship. If you're lucky, they're a good person who will at least try to be honest with you whether it's "working out" towards the desired societal outcome of unified baby-making or unified consensual bliss til rigor mortis do you part (or whatever your shared ideal is) or not. If you're lucky, their own values regulate them to be decent, to be kind, to think of your feelings, to take the time to talk things out. It's a brutal time to date. It can be lovely but it can be totally horrible. An oscillation of all the unknown heart and hormonal strings with very little understanding of where it's all going. Find your own road and pave it in yellow and hope, hope, hope to find the wizard.

Re York

I'm giving into the reality that a city is only as exciting as the love that it could be. When a potential romance dies, the spark that lit up that glow dims too. I wish it weren't so but that's who I am. I live for love. I write love. I create with it, against it, for it, around it, thanks to it always in endless repulsion and adoration.

I write in love with word that makes love. Love makes the word. The pulsation of my heart to the keyboard tap tap beat beat. Word, word. The beloved object between us, us the word. The beloved linguistic bliss. Or the utter lack of words and just the non-words issued by eyes and hands. A beautiful face that no amount of words could summarize. Only your eyes. Only your glorious eyes in mine. That's hardly a word. That's a perfect heartbeat. Beat. Beat.

Don't forget me forever. Sing me when you're older and you've realized that you've let us slip into a pointless lacuna. When we are more lacuna than present then perhaps we simply aren't anyway.
Aren't. Yet around all the gaps a piece of me will long to keep adoring those moments when we were blissful somebodies. Some body day I'll see you heart heart heart. Is it the you or the deepest of wishes to feel that way? How to separate the blissful being from the inspirer of such feeling? We try to extricate the essence so that perhaps it could be again.

Swish heart into place and adore the everything space that fills the lungs of a dinosaur in a fantasy novel about robots. Non sense permeates the desire to uplift so that it's ok that nothing makes sense exactly sometimes.