Come. (while we're doing repetition...)

Two things under this heading. Both old. Unrelated as to context and to address.

“Come to me” he used to write me repeatedly, even if he was a stone’s throw away. One needs space to make such an invitation – one needs both certainty and uncertainty. One needs to feel it is a real request. At least, that is what I imagine. How much space does one man need to be able to make that request? How much distance is necessary for that traversal? I have tried to measure out that distance repeatedly since then. I have tried to find the spot in the course when the firm ground gave way. I have paced and paced, marking the territory, trying all the different metrics available.

I don’t have the answer. I don’t have the response. It isn’t mine to have. “Yes, yes,” is all I have. But what good is a yes when there is no question? Useless, pitiful yes--that’s what you tried to hide in that jeep, in that other man’s mouth – but your yes is too loud, even muffled by another’s kiss. S’s ears are blocked to that yes; his Odysseus sails past your siren’s call unimpeded, ever forgetful that he initiated the question, that your yes is his response. Stay silent, impotent siren, stay silent, damn you. Why can’t you stop speaking and writing? You fill the world with your disgusting lamentations.