The process was a languid pain, assigned from a hollowed spectre of what ought to be

Recall Beauviour’s subject and the other as whole – the knowing of the other’s presence, while not present, is the telling. Love binds us to this persistence and moulds us accordingly.

Love as assemblage, machinic and perpetual psychic production,
becoming a body in all its physiological functions (Deleuze, Guattari)

What, then?

This pursuit bygone, for there was never a whole to gain
But the severance is just as pained
The wound revealed

It begins with wakeful panic,
persists with yearning,
ends in flight

This is always the path of least resistance, a diminishing return. It still eludes me whether I heal or ache.

Worry for me, I wanted to tell you.
Sporadically, spontaneously.
Could your heart ache like mine?
Agonising synchrony.

I tend to exaggerate, to dramatise the ordinary. What’s more ordinary than cerebral waves? Reality talks behind my back and laughs at my expense, my mortal fear. Darling, you’re being silly.

Another time swings through me in orbs and that’s where my ease rests. Years for now we’re lost in the mountains and I remembered you. Your name stills me, and I pause my tread. The journey is deafening. I rehearse and heed myself at its zenith, imagining the rehearsal will conceive the impossible.

Longing in distance is relative, both in physical and affective distance. For in every inch they allow, you will long for a quotient unreached.
This is the wound: you were never here as we were never whole.