My mind doesn’t stop wandering, asking questions
I am looking for the answer I want to hear
What the cause could be that I could love somebody
that does not even a little bit love me.
What lesson is supposed to be learned
What confusing tangle what pointless unhappiness
What a waste of a heart’s container and foil
What a spoiled present and unforgiving test.
Is it not love that I close my eyes and see her
Do I not sit well with her, can I not sit there
Am I not the most patient suitor, do I not simply suit her
How can we not be a good match if she is so fiery, I so easy to burn
Can’t she see that fire can’t kill me, kill this mind, this heart, these eyes, my memory..
But now it sounds like I blame her for not loving me
I shouldn’t blame her but all I feel is blame and shame
I can’t absorb it all, all the worst ideas and thoughts and selfish prayers
I have to let them go, I have to hurl them away from me because they hurt, she is so far away the only thing that reaches her are shouts, no kindness, or well-wishes and no gratitude, what a joke, what of justice, isn’t the law of love unbreakable?
What is the answer?
Then I must conclude that this is not love but obsession. Will she be at the end of the last verse, will she be reciting beautiful language?
No, she is not at the end, in fact she is only at the beginning of it all but
I myself cannot mark the date of the first planted tree that stretched for the rain
The strengthening sensation of touch the desire to be content and alive. The seconds of long period of time when I felt in my heart, in my soul that I found a person I did not know I was looking for. What was the time? Was it when she called out my name? Was it the first time I really saw her? When I heard her laughing behind me? Was it when I went home? When I got homesick for a place I do not live in?
Do you think I am unwell?
Do you think I need help that I have a condition that I need some air, some sunshine,
Water and time to grow up, no, I’m not the fading rose or wilting leaves because of dried up love. I’m cycling on to the white dandelion holding steady against the wind, knowing that the elements will take me away, knowing that my own self-fulfilling prophecy has doomed me but that my feelings are right and real and will not die.
I believe that my immortal fancies are the immortal flowers. I have never fancied anyone as much as I do now.
I believe that after how we have left off, the chances of us as I hope are not ideal
I even feign confidence, thinking I could knock you on your ass, romantically, of course,
Convincing you that we are meant to be as a unit as common sense as mathematical rule.
What are the chances, what mad idea, how likely is that you like me even a little bit?
How likely is that we are alike enough that the equation can yield, the chemistry needed? What sorcery or science can we study that will turn this lead into gold?
How likely is that we could follow the cliché of growing old together and together when we are old we can act young and create the new cliches?
Here, I am with the simple elaborate fantasy, this plan that makes sense to me. It already feels like purgatory, so I write my sentence away for another chance at our life together. So this is a piece for unfair, fruitless, stubborn infatuation that is inexplicably in the imprint of all people.
Is it not more reasonable to say that truth is unreasonable
that dreams are harsh because they leave people thirsty
That hope is desperate insanity and that love is a biased privilege.
Now I have another question. What should I ask her if I could only ask one question? What is the answer?
Yes, she I could rant about, with she I would laze about, only with she should I travel the world round about, I hope she doesn’t forget about me.
She said something to me in the past that I thought was funny – she called someone beautiful, I was confused – how could my world’s most beautiful person think someone else is beautiful?
O she is perplexing.