The smoke of my own breath, Echoes, ripples, buzz'd whispers, love-root, silk-thread, crotch and vine, My respiration and inspiration, the beating of my heart, the passing of blood and air through my lungs, The sniff of green leaves and dry leaves, and of the shore and dark-color'd sea-rocks, and of hay in the barn, The sound of the belch'd words of my voice loos'd to the eddies of the wind, A few light kisses, a few embraces, a reaching around of arms, The play of shine and shade on the trees as the supple boughs wag, The delight alone or in the rush of the streets, or along the fields and hill-sides, The feeling of health, the full-noon trill, the song of me rising from bed and meeting the sun. 3 I have heard what the talkers were talking, the talk of the beginning and the end, But I do not talk of the beginning or the end.
There was never any more inception than there is now, Nor any more youth or age than there is now, And will never be any more perfection than there is now, Nor any more heaven or hell than there is now.
to say the magic is gone is an understatement, at least for me.
I had to face the fact that while we both shared a pain about all of this, he has the privilege of still being madly in love with me, of seeing me intact and good and worthy, and I remain…broken.
I look back and realize that my calm, fairly together response was, in reality, shock and trauma. While, in the past 4 years, there have been some porn-related slips, there has been no more cheating, so far as I can tell. We’ve had ups and downs, but have been generally successful in recovering this marriage.
My reason for believing him is the difference in reaction he has had over the years – he’s not defensive, doesn’t fight my accusations, is calmly open to my questions, feels I have the right to my feelings, etc. Still, we recently separated for a few months because I had to face the fact that, while things are better, stable, peaceful, even good…
Urge and urge and urge, Always the procreant urge of the world.
Lack one lacks both, and the unseen is proved by the seen, Till that becomes unseen and receives proof in its turn.
1 I celebrate myself, and sing myself, And what I assume you shall assume, For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you.
I loafe and invite my soul, I lean and loafe at my ease observing a spear of summer grass.
My tongue, every atom of my blood, form'd from this soil, this air, Born here of parents born here from parents the same, and their parents the same, I, now thirty-seven years old in perfect health begin, Hoping to cease not till death.
Creeds and schools in abeyance, Retiring back a while sufficed at what they are, but never forgotten, I harbor for good or bad, I permit to speak at every hazard, Nature without check with original energy.