the rose blossoms droop, brown and limp, their shriveled petals strewn about the flowerbed, and yet the bushes themselves still wave in joyous worship of the warm sun and gentle breeze. A deadness in summer.
If there is one redeeming quality posessed by my landlord, it is his rosebushes. On at least a few nights in summer, when returning from work, I am moved by their beauty to spend ten or twenty minutes filling with their subtle fleeting fragrances, and feeling their cool and supple petals lightly brush my face. But saying they are my landlord's is misleading. It implies a careful husbandry, the caress of a loving gardener, and an attentiveness to beauty which my landlord has forsaken. He keeps his sensitivities locked away. He owns these gorgeous bushes, but he does not care for them. They grow as wild, they prosper uncultivated, they burst into bloom at the start of each summer, naturally lush and fragrant, as if brought to climax by the warm stroking of the lengthening days. And we cannot even pretend to have taken part in that passion; it leaves us out.
i want a participation apart, I want to engage by remote control (an impossible thing) where I can enjoy the passions of two others—one whom I wish I could love, and one whom I wish I could be. I fantasize (and I did even when we were still together) of my ex-, Daniel, who I wanted to love, and our acquaintance, handsome-hung-top Chris, who I wanted to be. Chris was actually interested in Daniel, I saw it the moment they met, and Daniel noticed Chris, though he didn't want to notice him; Daniel loved me. Soon after, Daniel and I were invited to go camping with Chris and his girlfriend Kelly. I refused to go. I was afraid to confront the question, 'who do I want with Daniel, me or Chris?' And so, I guess I answered it by not going.
We create our own reality, and I would have made it happen; my romantic orphanization. I would have encouraged it in subtle ways had I been on that trip; the assignation of the one I love with the one I wanted to be his lover. I don't know why I would want such a thing, but my staying away is why it didn't happen—Daniel loved me, no one else. But I don't want to be me, I want to be the vicar of me, the one in place of me. For me, making love is too close for comfort, there's no room for maneuvering or escape. It should be fresh, delicate and tender, like new rose petals, fragile and vulnerable. I want that for the one I love, but if he wants me...
They drop now from even the slightest touch, even a soft breath of warm summer air sends these once pink and perfect petals cascading to the ground, where they collect lifeless and dry up, reminding us for a long time to come of a pure and sensuous, but all too brief summer bloom.
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