Love

I hold love in my outstretched hands, an offering that slips through my

fingers each time, the ground at my feet saturated as it pools around me.

Maybe if it was thicker, more substantial like molasses, I could hold it

longer. Maybe you could then take it from me gladly, without spilling a

drop, and it would stretch out between us.

But "maybe" doesn't mean a thing when I know my acetone love is only

good for one thing- wiping away the marks left behind on your skin,

under your nails, until it evaporates, leaving you shining and new for

the next person who extends their love to you. And maybe that's alright.

Maybe I should be happy that I am a stepping stone that prepares

people for someone meant for them, even though that someone is never

me. I'm a catalyst, an in-between, a doorway. And no one likes to stand

in a doorway, straddling two rooms (lives), not coming or going, just..

there. It's a lonely existence, being an observer even while being allowed to

participate for a short time. I cherish the time that I do have, truly, but

I'm growing weary and my back is bowed and aching, my heart is frayed

from all the times I've had to stitch it back together.