H,
There is a sour note in the
air today. I do not know why. It is probably not one thing. What would I do if I
could not write? I think it is an amalgamation of failures, fears and fever
dreams. I have to note that on the worst days of waking up I usually get the
best days of living, in a sense. It does not get darker than my imagination.
Anyway, the poem, here is “this
fallen love”:
Specter, ghost, ogbanje
You haunt me
And never let up
I am an instrument of sorts
You are an unfilled cup
I feel you in words
You forget me in a day
I feel that deep love
You disregard the embers
I felt off and unchallenged
You were worn and not without malice
You refuse to be a character in my book
In anarchy you rise
Always
Out of form
To become real
You refuse to be a talisman
I can steal
Out of imagination you always leap
Into some other thing
I have loved you for more
Than half my life
You idiot
Stop with the carrot and stick
Come with me
I love you, you are safe
Idiot, stop with the carrot and stick
Come to me
I cannot honestly tell you
what all that means. It is a story, like any tale retold, full of exaggerations
and enough fiction not to be a documentary account of any real person or state.
I always feel the best
expressions of expected love are just cries in the dark for God. We do not
really expect fallible people like us to practice anything other than fallen
love? Even when we say we love people “just the way they are” with “warts and
all” the small print of the offered contract is that they love us back
something fierce, un-wielding and picture perfect. As long as the flaw is not
infidelity, as long as the quirk is small, as long as they do not embarrass us
too much when we take love out for a stroll. Yet, well, none of that is fail-safe. We are not able to love in the real sense until we first address our
love to God.