Day Twenty Three

Who put these pictures into my head? Who planted these seeds?

Who fed me these lines? Was it Sylvia, Dolly, Nancy or Jane?

Why did I think it had to hurt, to ache -to pain?

 

How could you think that love meant sliding

down a wall to rest your head blindly.

 

Long early hours in a green vinyl chair waiting,

scraping for reasons to appease them

when finally it’s your name they’re calling.

 

Tight rope walking for approval

saying; never mind, it doesn’t matter, that’s fine.

Until you’ve forgotten what it was that you wanted

what you were dreaming – too busy pleasing.

 

Who said

Love meant

 

Watching your hand break the cup you like best

like a wave falling down on the beach

turning in the  page empty of story

to find no grain in your harvest sheaf

To sit in the gutter rotten and putrid with grief

Bewildered.

 

To feel your heart swell at the injustice

the sadness. At feeling alone in your own home, out of place.

When you look in the mirror and see nobody there

Who said you should suffer for it, be racked with despair?

 

As you lie awake feeling your heart beating time with his breathing

and fists curled, find yourself dreaming

of smashing the pan down

on his face.

 

Why did you think that you need to submit to the sadness

Make windows rattle with the rage and the madness

send obscenities scattered to grey skies.

Storm off, run out, slam doors. Never pause

casting yourself out to the edges that cut you.

 

Then creep back and beg back – to take up the burden

because love is for hurting.

 

Who said this? Where did you read this? Who dripped this poison,

Viscous and clear, slow drip drip drip down the thread to your ear?

who set your feet on this path to distress?

Who ever said that this model was best?

Who said this system was the one you had to adhere to?

 

until

Leaning by the window as my slow train slides into the station we’ve been aiming for. Weary bent arrow.

Through blocked lines, mudslides, mixed signals, pileups – missed connections.

Footsore, armsore – weighed down with baggage.

To see you

standing up from your bench where you have been waiting.

Quietly, patiently – inscrutable.

Knowing I would arrive eventually on a train. Some train.

and I would like to tuck my arm into yours and

walk home in the drizzle, feet dipping unnoticed into puddles

of splintered lamplight at our feet.

 

So now I tell you. This is love.

 

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One response to “Day Twenty Three

  1. Beautiful, and sad, and beautiful.

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