I have the words in there somewhere, those beautiful utterances that are strung together so delicately that only the prettiest, most flowery words are produced. I just can’t seem to pick them out without breaking them down into ugly pieces of “love, heart, key, soul, happiness…” etc etc etc. Those have to be my most overused words, and as much as it kills me to rely on those old things, I feel like the other ones, the pretty, sensitive, honest words are stuck in there somewhere.
I want to be willowy and sinewy and lit up by the bright sun, but I find myself fat and dumpy hiding in the dark of my cliches and rhymes. Where are those words?! I am the poet, and they are mine! Why can’t I ever seem to catch up to them, no matter how long in the night I stay awake keeping chase?
I wanted to write a poem about the meta universe that two people in love find themselves in. I wanted to write about the very real, yet intangent, world that two lovers create and inhabit in and around each other. I’ve started something and I like some of these words, but there’s something better in there, I know there is. I was reading Khalil Gibran’s “The Prophet” and love love loved the part “On Love” where he discusses belonging with, but not to. On how to be separate, yet together. How to be different, yet one. After reading it, I asked myself how I could apply that to my own relationship. How I think of my Fair Ginger Lover as mine, and me as his, yet know full well we each have our own goals and dreams, our own Before and our own versions of what could exist should we ever encounter an After. When two hearts become one, how does that work? It’s something I’m meditating on right now.
But here’s the start. Because while I’m not finished, I’m not ashamed of the draft.
I have always envied those
Whom dance in the space between souls
The purgatory of circumstance, caught
In the closeness of two people.
We call it love,
to be in suspended orbit, to adore
to touch ever so slightly yet
never let go
To sway in and out of each
Existence, becoming familiar with
the delicious foreignness of another’s mind,
as waves chase the moon,
as the moon tugs the tide.
To have but never to keep.
To belong with, but never to.
Revel at existing in
this personal universe within
the confines of contact
as close as our skin to our bones.
Within and without, we mingle
taking pieces as we trespass,
staking claim on something that
could never be property
calling the whole affair
Thank you for reading. xoxo