Love is the finest form of dying

There is a thin fine line between giving up on yourself and giving up on needing another…between striving for that spring green flexibility and tormenting ourselves when we bend in the slightest way, in the slightest breeze. The hollowing pain that rips through our torso like seething heavy balls shot from distant black pig iron cannons. Like when love unbridled goes careening into boundless plains, before it can be tamed…and yet how we hang on to it…until we become – the wild ones.

Love has a place – and that place is in our hearts where it stays and loops in lemniscates of infinity – it doesn’t go out to others, rather they enter into our hearts. Until it all becomes an indistinguishable melt within us. Still, like idiot savants, we squint and study and analyze our philosophies in dialectics with beautiful wayfarers and vigilant family, giving friends and torrid lovers – and we get confused and sad and then more sad – thriving on it, thumping like heart beats. Until sadness becomes as delicate and fragile as angel hair, like fine capillaries at the distant edge of tree roots. Not even those to anchor us anymore in the earth.

I am certain now that my love is not out there; even the hunch I once had that she was is gone. For she is already in me – as the pause in my pulse. So much entwined and in syncopation is she, that I cannot even distinguish her anymore – and so I shed my understanding of love, I give up the search, drop my implements and defenses, I will squander my love to others, as I have for so long and be happy that I can express at all. Spires of joy, dripping with tears. For now I know within, there is an endless supply – of both, love and tears.

Bring on the parade of mistakes and I will curse and scream out my love until I lose my voice…when I can be madly certain no one can hear me. Where my eyes next frost over with saline, and the last streak of glitter rolls to a stop on my cheek, and then I think I shall die.

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One Response to Love is the finest form of dying

  1. we bend in the slightest way – by westward blowing wind, released from imprisonment “…in a bit of knotted string…”