I think of his eyes – dark pools so sensitive, radiant with droplets of feeling-light, the depth of them in tremulous water, how they seem to ripple inwards as I look into them, as if my heart itself is a ripple in that wide river of receiving, reflecting the sky of me so I can see my vast self for the first time, reflecting things I never saw in my own sky – eyes that hold that note steady, that one note that blows through my heart, all the way through.
Miles Davis. How it must have hurt to live with such sensitive sight. If anyone showed what the heart is capable of when given half a chance to thrive – when that chance is taken, given or not – what music the street and seasons, curls of hair in a simmering breeze, the cadence of a walk – what music an open glance met for a moment, or sunlight falling, the wisp of a cloud just visible through towering New York buildings – what music it is to move a hand, pick up a glass and drink, to laugh, gesture, what music the swoon of a chin line makes up to soft lower earlobes – all of it, what music all of it is made of – it was him.
That infinitely-indescribable sound – muted trumpet that seems to emerge like a drop so gentle it floats along the top of an autumn leaf or in rivulets across your windshield with streetlights throwing soft shadows that wind down skin – how a drop like that even forms – or mist swirling on the beach in the early morning with no one around, the edges of waves constantly-curious-exploring-timid-and-yet-unstoppable the swath of sand under your bare feet in cold awakenings – and just one sandpiper there running along the shore, here and gone –
or lightning and dark clouds streaking down along the horizon in New Mexico, sweeping sweetly the forever mountain stone – a flash, a drift, a glimpse in time of something changed as soon as you can see or say hello – or that stop in your voice when there’s nothing to say, sitting in a kitchen at night incandescent with someone you love and the quavering note of your bodies, a hovering resonance holding words back, knowing this space can’t be closed with communication of any kind, only fallen into, and ultimately lost like the heart when it tries to speak its holy name.
Like that and more than that – like you here now reading this – like morning stars barely pricking the atmosphere in a blue haze of goodbye – like morning stars reflected in this trembling water moment longing with life – like morning sky reflected in the black star water
sensitive of your eyes –
(2019 Ben Ross. All Rights Reserved.)