if i write i won't forget

 and those were the reasons and that was new york..

Woke up this morning with Leonard Cohen. He stays with me all day.

today I'm keeping us alive by writing. 

Some of the things you've said are about both of us needing to get a little older, or was it about getting wiser.

Some of the things you said were that now it is finished but then later, we were bound to meet again. 

Some of the things you say make sense and sometimes not.

Before you left you talked about a poet. Mayakovskiy was it. You said perhaps he liked at times to torture himself. That he stood one night beside the bedroom door, and listened to the woman whom he loved in bed with someone else. I understand now you experience this scene as torture. I understand now the complexity and nonsense of our shared experience.

After you've left you send a poem that you like. I try to read it before sleeping but too many words are difficult in Russian. I consider telling you that I need help to understand, but then I could also use a dictionary, and I should be more reserved about reaching out for you.

I don't know what to call it really. We shared only a brief time together but then what is time. There were so many secrets and closed doors. But somehow through it all I felt some kind of thing I only know to recognize as loving, the seeds forming in our soiled sheets. 

In another space perhaps I've shared a life with you. We had a son or daughter, who had my eyes and your laughter echoed after you.