For women who are tied to the moon, love alone is not enough. We insist each day wrap it’s knuckles through our heart strings and pull. The lows. The joy. The poetry. We dance at the edge of a cliff, you have fallen off. So it goes. You will climb up again.
You rare girl, once again, you have a body that belongs to no lover, to no father, belongs to no one but you. Wear your sorrow like the lines on your palm. Like a shawl to keep you warm at night. Don’t mourn the love that is lost to you now. It is a book of poems whose meters worked their way into your pulse. Even if it has slipped from your hands, it will stay in your body.
You loved a man who treated you like absinthe, half poison and half god. He tried to sweeten you, to water you down. So you left. And now you have your heart all to yourself again. A heart like a stone cottage. Heart like a lover’s diary. Hope like an ocean. Letter From Anais Nin to Clementine von Radics (After Marty McConnel)
멀리 있지 않아서라면,
멀리있는 그대여 라고 부를 때의 그 아련함과 설레임과 가슴 묵직히 찾아오는 슬픔이 그립다.
자꾸 노랫말은 흘러나오지만, 멀리 있던 그대가 가까워 짐으로 잃는 것들도 있다.
멀리 있는 그대여,
오늘은 어찌 보냈는 지요
홀로 시간을 보낼 때, 그대는 무슨 생각을 하는 지요
멀리 있는 그대여
어쩌면 우리 더욱 사랑할 수 있는 지도 몰라요
더딘 시간 속에 이름을 곱씹어, 추억을 곱씹어 보내 가슴에 묻네요