Being unable to write in Biarritz is like:
Granulated salt lining the insides of your nostrils
And the sneeze that never quite comes or
Writing out a shopping list and forgetting half the things on it in the
French market hall that is loud
But also somehow overwhelmingly quiet and
You get frazzled by the French words you don’t know and
The way that they pour over you or
Topple like
Dreamy foam on golden beaches and
Salt water inside of your brain like
Liquid French, d’accord?
Every word written over the last three weeks—
Sans stylo—
End-of-summer ghosts
Wrapped in cashmere sweaters and
The way that they f l o a t —
Not the words (sans stylo)
Tumbling, rolling, becoming complete-
-ly different in my mind.
But the shadow of women
Whose bones one can so easily count and
Make me
Shake inside, wondering how closely that
Could have been me?
But this writelessness, it does not float.
Not even knowing the words to write about
The words I am not writing or
Does it dig?
Into the depths of the soul, demanding to know
If the thoughts run through your mind
Constantly like
Endless plates of tapas and the gluttony of
Speaking perfect French after three bottles of
Red wine;
Then why must you dig,
To write it down?
Not writing in Biarritz is like
Bickering with the one you love over
- the shopping list
- the sand inside of your nose and
- your subsequent feelings of inadequacy about being unable to surf a wave.
Because you forgot for five minutes,
Five months,
Five years,
Of the most important thing that there is.
And the way that he looked at you and
Held your tiny face in his hands in
The airport when you first met,
Saying goodbye,
Unknowing it would soon be the warmest hello in the entire world.
Forgetting how to write in Biarritz is like being overwhelmed
By the mundane and so
You forget that
This is the most important thing that
Is here.
