Secret Vespers

It wakes me up again, it is a question that will not answer itself. You mark a black X on my hand and tell me it must mean something. In a better world there are longer, greater distances, there is wilderness and anarchy. I want to kiss you in a riot, slip a piece of rubble into your pocket. When we meet, I think you are dancing, but no, you are in the middle standing still. I bring you to a rooftop, we spot what stars the city lets us see. We plan an escape, complicated and unlikely, give it every chance to fail. We post secrets onto paper airplanes, wishes that must never come true.

I want to meet you without ever planning to meet, sit next to you on the subway and get off at the wrong stop. We’ll change our clothes, buy five dollar outfits and chase cats through alleys, steal the cameras of tourists to take pictures of graffiti, follow them back to their hotels to give the items back. We’ll find a protest and teach an anarchist to sing, set the unwanted dogs at the SPCA free. We’ll ride glass elevators in the financial district and give crayon drawings to vice presidents. We’ll share pies with hipsters and run up stairs until we puke, shower in cold water, in our clothes, and kiss to keep our lips warm. We’ll do the single most honest thing at work to get us fired, live by selling whispers in a gallery. We’ll not know each other’s name for at least a year, and never use words between sunset and sunrise.

There is a new section at Secret Vespers, called Lovesick. It is devoted to the passionate moments and affairs you are doomed to lose forever, to the desires you can barely name. It is devoted to the crushing realization that there is nothing you can fix, that there is no way to get that feeling back, that there is a world of dreams never to come true. And that they are all beautiful.

Lovesick is a series of confessions to the Internet. Each one is posted live. Each one attempts to capture the loss or impossible fantasy of a lovesick, sleep-deprived character.