Tadzio, we are at odds even now
across the dim room,
the linen dunes of this disheveled bed,
the white sand undulating,
before I know your name.
Wordless,
you were the pure perfume of beauty,
an intoxicant infused with the petals
of your eyes. You were youth
calling...
What could I take away
from you that would not fade?
Your perfection,
an illusion made of my regrets,
is a mirror of memory.
It is not real.
If you kiss me, I worry,
you will disappear. If,
in my arrogance,
I dare to touch you,
you will evaporate... faster
than the opalescent stain
you leave
upon these sheets.
"This journal is not a mere literary diversion. The further I progress, reducing to order what my past life suggests, and the more I persist in the rigor of composition--of the chapters, of the sentences, of the book itself--the more do I feel myself hardening in my will to utilize, for virtuous ends, my former hardships. I feel their power." --Jean Genet
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