Married lovers are like bulls because they only see red. When they're in hot pursuit, the other parts blur by, the parts holding the picture together, partners and kids bearing their own burdens of desire or confusion or lust or loneliness. I see bulls isolated by choice but surrounded by necessity.
I was red. I made sure I was red.
The Bull in Black
"Come meet me," was all we ever had to say.
We could access other parts of ourselves, parts we didn't like to show in the light of day, parts almost simultaneously discovered and revealed in secret. We are already shrouded here in the shadows, so why not reveal all? In the shadows where our cravings danced with each other, où nos faims se dévorés. We are seduced by the darkness; the seedier, the later, the smokier, the drunker, the better. Remember when we stayed up all night at that girl's house, the American one, snorting lines and talking about her impressive collection of books. She talked so much, even more than us. We didn't just have a thing for drugs and alcohol, we had a thing for personalities. We liked to be surrounded and swallowed up by big characters, big energies, take parts of them away with us to discuss and dissect later, and get high on those parts again and again. We never wanted the party to end. We liked that 5am sunlight to burn off the last of the chemicals, watering our eyes. The washing hour for lost souls.
The Bull in Cashmere
"You are everything," you once wrote me.
Morphing, we become each other's fantasies. Once, we discussed road trips and magically in the days following a plan for one manifested in my head, the details you'd already dreamed of but had never said aloud. How's it possible that we have access to secret dreams that only appear in each other's presence? "You give me hope," you once told me. Shapeshifting, we become all the parts we don't even know we were searching for, metaphorical parts of ourselves, rocks and water, waves and sea, we became all the parts the other isn't, all at once, in great swaths of desire and projection.
"I love you," I once wrote back.
Thing about Bulls is, they lay claim to independence but hate to be alone.
Thing about being red is, eventually you burn. 3rd degree.