blair beusman


Notes to V.



E-mail I Never Sent


I.

I hope you’re doing ok. I feel bad all the time. I cry every day and I’ve barely been able to eat. My heart feels like it’s being crushed at the bottom of the ocean. Sending good vibes to Bernie.





The Eternal Return


How everything is a mixture of cruelty and banality and tenderness and beauty; how the most painful things to recall are the most ordinary: standing outside a bar pressed against you, forehead to forehead, feeling your stomach against mine and not being able to go inside to your friends because we weren’t done holding each other yet. How slowly we would untangle before sleep, not wanting to admit we were uncomfortable wrapped around each other: we’d loosen our arms, then our legs, then eventually unwind our fingers until the morning when I would burst back over to you.





Mnemosyne


I remember, in the beginning, how you would cradle my head so it wouldn’t slam into the wall, over and over, as you fucked me. No one agreed when I told them how sweet I thought it was. An easier solution, it seemed, would be to not slam my head into the wall at all. But that isn’t what love is.


The last time, you did it again. And that’s where we would always end up: your cruelty culminating in your kindness, and me, feeling the sublimity of both.





E-mail I Never Sent


II.

I hope you’re doing well. My heart feels like it’s been put into a malfunctioning version of Temple Grandin’s hug machine that administers too much pressure. Talk to you next month.




blair beusman//@blairharr

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