How does one learn to believe in love?
what is it?
Are we born with a love just waiting to find us?
(it's pink plump hands itchy with giddiness and excitement- reaching out towards you)
or maybe it's already here,
(ready to smother you in its golden glow and wrap you in "security")
I don't believe that...
There is no great plan to this world
(somebody behind the velvet curtain pulling on strings and making us dance- pirouettes and pas de deux)
We are all just lines
Running along a blank piece of paper-
so busy hoping for something more we forget that all we are- are lines on a blank piece of paper
We intersect and interact.
(running next to each other neck in neck)
(pushing each out of the way)
it's all just chaos.
Some people think that love happens in an instant.
like two strangers enter a room and suddenly the airlocks into place-
like glancing at someone with the intensity of all the butterflies trapped in your stomach-
like a touch that sends electric currents running through your unstable body- shocking your fuzzy mind into submission,
like talking to "home" in poetry
or singing a ballad to "belonging"
I don't think so...
I don't believe we are meant to find a love,
it isn't hiding from us; it's was never there to begin with
There are no two halves of a single greater whole,
no two people that fit and fold into one another like jigsaw puzzles:
or combine in a mixture of
bird and sky,
earth and tree,
"Love" molds and grows constantly:
evolving, rearranging its bones.
crushing you, building you up.
"Love" has no form or any real meaning grounded in reality,
it's an idea
a "no truth"
a "bluff" that we nonetheless chase so needily:
(desperation painting our sweaty, sunburned faces)
(loneliness sticking to our shaky, wrinkled hands)
Roughed up and loveless from wandering alone we try to reason with it-
"what must I do? how must I change?"
But when the silence gets to be too much and as our legs fold in beneath us we plead-
"please end this suffocation!"
But we can never reach it
You- stranded traveler, the love a mirage
(driven by days of stumbling around, tripping over all your misplaced hopes and empty promises)
Chase it, but you won't ever get close enough to dip your hands into its clear chilled water-
or braid its silky hair,
or hear it lull you into sleep at night.
But then again, maybe I'm wrong,
(too shallow in my perception to think anything new- or understand more than any other person)
How can one discuss love when they know nothing of it?
I like my coffee with sugar and milk,
my mother thinks it's a disgrace.
I think I'll find the love that doesn't exist- when pigs fly.