Not Much, Only More

after Francis Ponge

Writing about him from a place far from him will not work. Each day I must fix my

eyes on him until they water and I blink and his eyelashes fill my head. Any time my

mind strays from his face, I shall walk back quickly to his bus stop or bell or balcony.

He is always more important and deserving than me, better prepared and capable of

playing our game skilfully, most days winning. It is vital he makes clear he has no

obligation towards me – it is I who each day must show loyalty and devotion to him.

He has been clear to me from the beginning that he doesn’t want that much of me and

despite the one thousand things we have done together it is true that he doesn’t want

much, only more. I told myself I was with him since we are always together. Silly me!

There is little to us. There is no ‘us’. We are separate. ‘We’ is negligible. Me. You.

We are nobody. A body and a body. We are nothing other, nothing else, nothing more.

Just a picnic on the beach. A wedding in upper Austria. Five days cycling in the Loire.

Paul Stephenson