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van
Tomorrow I will fly home, and return to the safety of Van’s arms. A little death, it is, to love someone: a death in the sense that things seem to end, to decide themselves. My love is like gravity, a force that exerts itself over distance, a dimple in the fabric of my space-time. It bends light, distorts events that pass into its field. My love is like gravity.
God how I miss her. If things were different I would be driving home from a hard night’s partying, being wednesday and all, and she would be IN ME. In my blood and on my lips, the smell of her mingling with the nothing smell of airconditioned air, a scent that isn’t really a scent, a presence that sits in the back of my head and the back of my eyes. Here the distance pulls at me, breaks bits off me, catches me in an orbit round her star.
Last week we heard about the death of seven astronauts as they
plummeted to Earth in a doomed space shuttle. A piece of their wing broke off
during the takeoff and hit the shielding which would protect them on the way
back. Doomed from the beginning, they shouldn’t have returned. To come back
down to Earth, to come home, was a little death. Things ended, decided
themselves.
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