You do not know how longingly I look upon you,
You must be he I was seeking, or she I was seeking, (it comes to me as of a dream,)
I have somewhere surely lived a life of joy with you,
All is recall'd as we flit by each other, fluid, affectionate, chaste, matured,
You grew up with me, were a boy with me or a girl with me,
I ate with you and slept with you, your body has become not yours only nor left my body mine only,
You give me the pleasure of your eyes, face, flesh, as we pass, you take of my beard, breast, hands, in return,
I am not to speak to you, I am to think of you when I sit alone or wake at night alone,
I am to wait, I do not doubt I am to meet you again,
I am to see to it that I do not lose you.
"Taste literally dictates the techniques of our bodies. It is a social orientation that shows us our place in the world. What we love, what we hate, what “works” for us, it is inventively a combo of where we’ve come from, and where we think we’re going. Taste is not an object, but a process: a series of framings and refinements which lead one’s particular image of perfection. And because everything is, to some degree, subsumed by fashion, even our images of perfection are up for grabs, changing constantly, mutating from one hotness to another. Quality might be said to be the end product of the process of taste: the essence that’s left after the acid test: the nectar of resolution that becomes exemplary."