Rushed and Incomplete I.
It is hard to say if it was love,
I guess that’s a word I define myself
Still, it’s hard to say that it was, or it wasn’t.
If it was how did it disappear so completely.
If it wasn’t what was it that disappeared.
She asked me, what it was that she did.
I couldn’t tell her; it wasn’t anything in particular.
She opened a plug, and for a while I didn’t realize it was leaking.
but then I did, and I tried, I really did, I tried to hold it in.
I tried to keep whatever it was that we had.
Or at least what was left of it.
But even at our best, I could only stop the flow, I couldn’t reverse it.
And I guess I should be used to that,
I guess everyone is used to that,
But I hated the reminder,
And I wished to be born again,
And I wished to be young forever,
I wished that the infantile love might sustain itself,
Might mature without losing it rosy cheeks,
I wished for Angelman love.
Then I thought about what it was I was asking for
What it truly meant for love to never grow old.
What a lifetime of young love would be like,
And I guess I knew what it was that I had,
I had a love that wasn’t meant for more
A love that’s life expectancy would make its cheeks always rosy
A love that we had destined to die young.
But it’s okay to be young.
And I haven’t told myself that enough.
Love needn’t be more then it is.
And for a while what it is –
Is an absence of loneliness,
Temporary respite from an unwelcome truth.