she tied you to her kitchen chair
she broke your throne and she cut your hair
and from your lips she drew the hallelujah
Musing around on the internet, I watched a small, rough trailer of The English Patient… I saw the sandstorms and the textures, people moving their fingers softly across undulating skin, gazing at each other with a palpable intensity.
We sat inches apart, facing one another over a folding couch and mugs of tea. I recall the raindrops running down the screen just outside the closed windows. I looked at her with a regard that worked double time, searching between the sentences for the smallest nuance of attraction, for the tiniest foothold for my emotions… I would have reached out and taken her hand, alternately clasping it, fingers intertwined, and tracing the contours of her palm as we spoke. But no signal appeared, at least not from my vantage point, and the most I mustered during the rest of our encounter was to cant my feet towards her, perched on the coffee table in front of us. There were times, many times, when I couldn’t help but think there was more in the air between us than breath and conversation.
I used to be bold. Years ago I sat on a low, red couch in design studio late one early December night, talking to her, head in hand, elbow on the backrest. And during a lapse in conversation, through our gaze, I reached out with my other hand, placed it on her cheek and drew our lips together. In a whirl we were caught up for the rest of the night, remaining in it entirely against our better judgment… She wasn’t initially attracted to me, even, but through outings to plays, trips to bagel stores, and glowing encounters in her room over hot chocolate and Billie Holiday, she unfolded more of herself. Or, more precisely, I saw the inner workings of her emotions with greater clarity. She said I was the only one who tried to understand her. But I knew, as much as I did know, her heart was full of another, the one to whom understanding came intuitively, the real kindred spirit… I could offer the fervent desire to understand, but she deserved the consummation of that need for understanding from the beginning. If only I hadn’t lost her trust later than year, never through infidelity, but through shared experiences, who knows where we might still be.
baby I’ve been here before
I’ve seen this room and I’ve walked this floor
I used to live alone before I knew ya
I’ve seen your flag on the marble arch
but love is not a victory march
it’s a cold and it’s a broken hallelujah